Quell
by Swinging Cloud
Summary: Brittany never questioned her life, or the Games. She accepted that competing in the brutal brawl to the death- and winning- was an inevitable part of her future. But now, for the first time ever, she has something to lose; something she wants that she can never, ever have- because in the end, if she wants to win, she will have to kill her... AU. Hunger Games!Brittana
1. Special

**Summary:** Brittany never questioned her life, or the Games. She accepted that competing in the brutal brawl to the death- and winning- was an inevitable part of her future. But now, for the first time ever, she has something to lose; something she wants that she can never, ever have- because in the end, if she wants to win, she will have to kill her… AU. Hunger Games!Brittana. THAT MEANS VIOLENCE KIDS

**WARNING:** Because of the nature of this story, it will have **GRAPHIC VIOLENCE AND DEATH** in it. It's the motherfucking _Hunger Games_, man. There's be some killing. Also, what's a story of mine without sex? That's right, not mine. LOL But since this IS written by me, expect some of that at some point.

**A/N:** Hiiii! :D So, a long time ago, I thought about writing this story, but then I couldn't really think of a premise that I liked. Then, back in November in preparation for the release of _Catching Fire_, I rewatched _The Hunger Games_, and an idea came to me literally in the middle of the movie. And so, this story was born, and I got off my ass to write it for BFWFF.

Which sucks, because it required SO. MUCH. RESEARCH. UGH.

And before anyone accuses me of making this exactly like every other _Hunger Games _story out there, I would like to point out that I had a reason for the things I chose to do in this story, and that it is also 99% compliant with _Hunger Games_ canon! I didn't just pick stuff because "it sounded cool."

The chapters will be short, and I'm hopefully going to post pretty frequently until it's done. It should be less than **ten** chapters. I'd like to have this story finished by the end of the month, buuuuuut… lol. It's me. XD

Anyways. Please head the warning. There's gonna be a lot of violence and death.

Also, if you don't know anything about _The Hunger Games_, ummmmm do you live under a rock?

That being said, enjoy, I suppose. 8)~

* * *

You see the wooden club seconds before it bashes your skull in.

You're just barely able to twist out of the way, narrowly avoiding what would be a very painful and probably life-ending blow to your head as your opponent lets out a scream of rage. You leap back, out of his reach, and regain your footing, readying yourself to dodge another attack- an attack you _know_ is coming.

The male tribute from District 7- you have no idea what his name is, but he looks like he's made of plastic- lunges at you, bringing his makeshift club- which is really just a heavy piece of wood- up to take another swing for your head.

As you swiftly dodge another blow, you size up the situation. Plastic's District of origin explains his choice of weapon, and why he was waiting to ambush you in the trees, but he's slow, and-

"Stop moving!" He cries desperately. He swings again and you study his stance- he's off-balance, especially on his left side. His center of gravity is too high. His club is just a bit too heavy for him to comfortably swing, giving him less control over it than he should have. He turns and swats wildly at you with it, his breaths coming fast and heavy through his gritted teeth. Sweat trickles down his forehead.

He's scared.

And he's getting sloppy, you realize, as he misses you by an even wider margin. His club clips the edge of a tree trunk and bounces off, leaving him wildly off-center. You would pity him, except you hear your father in your head.

_They deserve this, Britty. They suffer for a reason. _

Your gaze hardens, and as Plastic raises the club high over his head to hit you with it- to _kill_ you with it- you make your move. You lunge into his personal space, so that you're pressed up against him- he can't really hit you there- and without any preamble, reach up to snap his neck.

He staggers back, of course. He struggles to get away. But you stay with him. He drops his weapon. And that's when you know it's over.

You trip him. He hits the ground on his back and begins to crawl backward, to get as far away from you as possible. His back hits a tree; there's nowhere else for him to go. His eyes widen with fear. Tears have begun to drip from his eyes. He's whimpering, holding his hands up, begging-

It's pathetic.

You pick up his discarded weapon. It _is_ heavy, but you raise it carefully.

"Please," Plastic begs, whimpers, sobs. You shake your head, silent. He started this. He attacked _you_. He would have killed you if he could have, but he couldn't. He can't.

But you can kill him.

You _will_ kill him.

You raise the club higher, and without any more delay, bring it down quickly on his head.

_He would have killed you_.

He screams, writhes.

Again.

_They suffer for a reason_.

He stops screaming.

Then again. You hear his skull crack. The cannon sounds.

Then you stop. You drop the club like it's a snake. No need to hold onto it. No need- you have a knife. You could have used that to finish him, but you have an unspoken rule. Your opponents deserve to die exactly how-

Something hard hits you in the side, tackles you to the ground. You hit the forest floor, feeling twigs poke into your back, leaves crunching beneath your weight. A fist connects with your head once, twice, and you block the blows quickly, twisting beneath a body that's smaller than your own. You look up, your vision still a little blurry from the hits to your head, and struggle to determine who it is, who's-

You gasp.

It's _Santana_.

She brings her fist back to hit you again, but the angle is wrong. You know she's not a fighter, not like you. When she punches you again, you grab her wrist with your opposite hand and pull hard, yanking her off balance and sending her hurtling to the ground beside you. She scrambles, kicks you. She gets you hard in the stomach, and you punch her, splitting her lip. Blood gushes down her chin. You can hear her breathing; it's not heavy, not like Plastic's was. She's not whimpering as she struggles against you. Santana seems a lot calmer, a lot more resigned to her fate.

Her fate that she's now forced on _you_.

You tried so hard to avoid her in the arena. You don't want to kill her. But now she's sought you out. She's forced your hand.

It's you or her.

You finally gain the advantage- you're bigger and stronger, after all- and straddle her, drawing your knife from its sheath at your side.

You could open her up right here. You could cut her throat, watch her bleed out-

No.

You'll end it quickly. You don't want her to suffer.

You press the knife to her throat.

And you think back to how you got here in the first place.

* * *

This year is different.

You've known for a while that it would be; for the past few years, there's been talk of change coming, an ominous energy creeping, buzzing into the everyday routines, rumors shared in hushed whispers slinking to every corner of Panem. The Districts didn't communicate with each other normally, of course, but when the Capitol wants to spread word- spread _fear_- it doesn't whisper it.

This year marks the 25th annual Hunger Games.

The Hunger Games occur every year like clockwork, so the fact that it's happening again this year doesn't surprise you. Maybe it was a little premature to be discussing the next Games so _soon_; it seemed like the victor of the 24th had just finished his Victory Tour when the news dropped and President Sylvester made the announcement that this year would be different. You remember the President, dressed in a blood red suit and equally horrifying matching make-up, smiling that cold, heartless smile as she took the podium and spoke into the microphone, into your home television, into your very soul, it seemed. She has a creepiness to her, an emptiness, like her insides consist of a black hole that swallows all shreds of warmth, of light. It made the hair on the back of your neck stand on end as you watched her present the news, present what set the 25th Hunger Games apart from the other twenty-four.

A new year, she said. A new year, and a new Games. She called it the _Quarter Quell_, and she claimed it had been instigated, drafted, legislated, whatever, _before_- when the Games were first created, when the charter was first written- to keep the reminder of the Districts' rebellion- _betrayal_- fresh… as if the yearly slaughtering of 23 children in an arena wasn't a fresh enough reminder.

The Quarter Quell, she explained, would happen every 25 years, and would not be bound by the rules of the normal Games, so that it could teach a "special" lesson. You felt your stomach sink at the label; this is supposed to be _your_ year. You don't need any more "special" lessons. You thought this was going to be just like any other year, but now there might be additional rules or challenges. You had no idea what the Quarter Quell did or what it meant, much like the rest of Panem. There had never been a _special_ Hunger Games before.

That announcement had been months ago; the Capitol had milked the suspense and speculation and fear for all it could, and now the day has finally arrived- the day when President Sylvester will announce just what the "special lesson" she'd mentioned previously will be. So as you sit in front of your TV with your father and mother, watching the broadcast which will indicate how the tributes will be chosen for this _special_ Hunger Games, you have to admit you're a little nervous. Whatever President Sylvester says will affect you directly. This is _your_ year. You're ready.

As the President opens her speech with the usual stuff she says every year- boring talk about the Capitol, the betrayal, blah, blah, blah, you can't help but roll your eyes a little. You've heard it all before. Twenty-five years ago, the thirteen Districts rebelled against the Capitol, there was a War, and now the Games- and only _twelve_ districts- remain. You're only eighteen- not old enough to even know what life was like before the War, and you're not sure how you feel about any of it.

Your father, a retired Peacekeeper, talks about the Capitol as if it's the greatest thing to ever exist. He'd been around before the War- lived through it and fought in it, even- and, after serving as a Peacekeeper for the required twenty years, settled down to raise a family. You'd been born a year after he'd met your mother- the 7th year of the Hunger Games, it's the only way you know to tell time- and he'd taught you since before you could speak about how great the Capitol is.

"They're lucky, Britty," he'd tell you nearly every day. "The Capitol is generous and forgiving. It could've wiped them all out, just like it did with District 13. The Hunger Games are an easy punishment."

"I thought you said District 2 remained loyal to the Capitol during the War," you'd said once when you were too young to know better. "Why do we have to participate in the Games if we didn't do anything wrong?"

"Most of our District remained loyal, but not all. The Capitol rewards those loyal to it." He waved his hand to indicate your house, your possessions. "It's been good to _us_. Just remember, Britt- it's an _honor_ to win those Games. If District 2 wasn't included, the winner would be someone from a _lesser_ District, and where's the sense in that? Just like Peacekeepers, someone has to take up the duty of keeping the others in line. That's why _we_ volunteer to be Peacekeepers, and why our _children_ volunteer in the Hunger Games. Those _lesser_ Districts? Their kids? They _deserve_ this. They suffer for a _reason_, Britt. Remember that."

And you have.

When you turned fifteen, you were enrolled in the newly-opened Training Academy, built to train children to volunteer for- and _win_- the Hunger Games. Not everyone who entered made it into the Games, since there were always more volunteers than spots. The old Academy had closed for the 17th year and been newly reopened the next year, and since it had, District 2 had won five out of the last seven Hunger Games, which proved that it _worked_.

The Academy wasn't technically _legal_, but as your father had told you, _the Capitol rewards those loyal_, and true to his word, the Capitol had pretended the Academy was just like any other school, essentially turning a blind-eye to the blatant disregard to the rules of the Games.

With the Academy open, and no shortage of volunteers, there was no fear in District 2- not like the other Districts. People didn't have to worry about their twelve or thirteen-year-olds being reaped; all of the volunteers were eighteen, making them older and stronger than most of the other tributes. It was the sacrifice of a few that made life less fearful for everyone. And with the odds in their favor, they oftentimes won, which meant that one of them would come home alive and there _was_ no huge, apparent sacrifice. You wondered how any other District could _not_ want the system your District had; but your father's words of _loyalty to the Capitol_ came back to you, and you stopped wondering.

You spent three years of your childhood training in every type of weapon that would be available in the arena, and you'd done well. You were ranked at the top of every weapons category, and even your Training Mentor, Shelby, had agreed you were ready.

This is _your_ year.

"Ladies and Gents, this is the twenty-fifth year of the Hunger Games," President Sylvester says, her cold, creepy smile in place and her eyes empty and soulless. You chew your lip, waiting. "It was written in the charter of the Games that every 25 years there would be a Quarter Quell, to keep fresh for each new generation the memory of those who died and the uprising against the Capitol. Each Quarter Quell is distinguished by games of a special significance."

You hold your breath.

"To remind ourselves that we must remain _loyal_ to the Capitol, even in the face of opposition from our neighbors, from our _friends_, from our very _families_- and that we have a duty, a _sacred_ duty, to the Capitol, and ourselves, to snuff out rebellion wherever it forms and report it; in honor of the twenty-fifth annual Hunger Games, and our nation's very first Quarter Quell, this year, the victors will be reaped- _chosen_, really- by the people of their respective districts."

You quickly spare a nervous glance to your father, who's sitting beside you on the couch, nodding in approval. Your eyes find his, which are a deep blue like your own, and you search his expression for a trace of disappointment, for any sign that President Sylvester's news is bad for your chances. You've known your fate since you were six; ever since your father placed a heavy hand on your shoulder and told you what the Hunger Games were, you knew that you were expected to volunteer them.

"Because we have a sacred duty, Britty," he'd told you. And you'd believed him. You've spent every moment training and preparing yourself for this, but this twist is unexpected, and you don't want it to screw up your plan.

When your father smiles at you in response, your nervousness melts away.

(Not once did it occur to you that you might lose.)

* * *

You take a deep, calming breath and stare at your reflection in the mirror. It's Reaping Day, and you've made all the necessary preparations. You find your cat, Lord Tubbington, and stroke your hand down his back a few times, bending to kiss his head.

"Bye, Tubbs," you say. "I'll be back soon."

He just blinks at you, so you offer him a smile and head out to the living room. Your father is dressed in his best suit, with his Retired Peacekeeper badge gleaming proudly on his chest. Your sister, Ashley, who's only eight, is wearing a lime green dress, her strawberry blonde hair pulled back in a beautiful pleat adorned with flowers. Your mother is dressed elegantly in a gown she bought especially for this occasion, and you smile. This is a proud day; your whole family is dressed up to see your name called, to you see you become a _tribute_.

"I'm proud of you, Britty," your father tells you, placing his hand on your shoulder, and you bow your head a little in respect. He bends to kiss your forehead, and your mother fusses over your dress, which looks like shimmering blue granite.

"You look beautiful, honey," she says, brushing your blonde hair back from your eyes, and you thank her. She gives you a hug, and Ashley hugs your waist, and you steel yourself. You feel a little nervous- like what if you trip on the stage when your name is called or something?- but then you remind yourself that this is _your_ year, that you have an image to project, and that _it's time_.

You follow your parents out to the center of town. District 2 is mostly composed of small little villages around the main city near a huge mountain. The villages are the poorer parts of District 2, but because of your father's status as a Retired Peacekeeper, you live in the city. Your mother, who's one tough lady, commutes to work, since she's a mason. As you walk, you vaguely wonder where you'll live once you win the Hunger Games.

The Reaping this year is occurring a little differently, since the people of District 2 are supposed to be "voting" for the tribute they want to represent them in the arena, but it's mostly a bunch of smoke and mirrors. The Processors all know that someone's already volunteered, so they go about their routines as if they all have somewhere else to be. The Peacekeepers stand in small clusters, laughing and sipping coffee. They're not worried about discontent. There _is_ none. Again, your father's words echo in your mind.

_The Capitol rewards those loyal to it. _

You give your parents and sister one last hug good-bye, and make your way to the front, keeping your chin up proudly. Around you, some of the younger girls whisper and look at you in awe, and it makes your chest swell a little. They admire you; they want to _be_ you. That's awesome. You're _awesome_.

When the Capitol Escort takes the stage, everyone claps. Her name is Sugar, and she's dressed to look like a cheetah, complete with a tail sewn into her pants and little cat ears on her head. She's fairly new- she's only been the Escort for the last two years, but her tributes have won both times, so she must feel pretty confident. You can't help but smile when she pumps her fist in the air a few times as she reaches the microphone and lifts it from the stand.

"Hell-o, District Two!" She yells, and the crowd cheers even louder. You smile wider. "Now, I've got to show you this video that you've seen _every_ _year_, but it's literally the best, so let's watch!" She offers everyone a huge, cheesy smile and presses a button on a remote she's holding; the huge screen next to the stage flickers to life, showing the obligatory pro-Capitol video you know you've seen eighteen times, though you can only actually remember seeing it fourteen times.

When the video finishes, Sugar dances back to the middle of the stage and throws her hands up. "Capitol, holla!" Everyone cheers again, and she picks up an envelope from a table beside her. "Now, I now ya'll or just dying for me to draw the names, but let's be honest here- those aren't going to be your tributes, right?"

The crowd chants back, _no!_ and Sugar nods, satisfied. You feel your stomach flutter with nerves. This is it. "Exactly. So let's just skip right to the good part!" At the crowd's approval, she tears open the first envelope and you feel your chest constricting with anticipation.

"Your female volunteer for the twenty-fifth annual Hunger Games and first ever Quarter Quell- Brittany Pierce!"

You release a breath of relief and make your way up to the stage. Around you, everyone's clapping, including your parents. Sugar pats your shoulder excitedly, smiling kindly and brightly at you. Up close, you notice she has black cheetah tear-track markings on her face, and whiskers. It's weird, but actually kind of cool. You wonder if maybe she'd get along with Lord Tubbington-

"And your male volunteer," Sugar says with a flair of drama, holding the envelope up to her face mysteriously. It piques your interest, because you don't know who the male volunteer is- you don't know who will be your opponent. She tears it open and says, "for the twenty-fifth annual Hunger Games, blah, blah, blah… Jesse St. James!"

You swallow and look at him as he swaggers forward proudly to take his place beside you on the stage. You've never met him, but you know he went to the same Academy you did, and you've seen his name ranked high on the lists with yours. He's not going to be an easy opponent, but maybe you'll get lucky and someone else will kill him for you.

"District Two, we have our tributes!" Sugar yells enthusiastically, throwing her fist up in the air.

You smile.

* * *

**Aiight, well. There's that. **

**Let me know what you think!**

**Or not, it's cool. :)**

**Brittana meet in the next chapter! See you kids there! :***


	2. Token

**A/N:** Hey everyone! Sorry for the delay; I just got back from moving my aunt to Mississippi, so I wasn't able to do a whole lot of writing. But now that I'm back, I should be able to update this a lot faster. There will probably be about 7 or 8 chapters, and I haven't decided if I want to do an epilogue yet. It just depends on how I feel once it ends.

In any case, thanks to everyone for reading, favoriting, following, and reviewing the first chapter! Also, thanks for all the flattering comments stating that you trust me to write a good HG story; no pressure, right? Hahaha. I'll do my best! I'm a huge fan of the books/movies, so I'm trying to make it as accurate as possible. Thanks for placing your (undeserved) trust in me! XD

I'd also like to thank Dakota (**Perfectly Censored**) for being the best Wall to ever Wall, and my good friend Tiger (**get-higher**) for being a bitch and not writing my fics for me even though I beg her to every single day. I'd also like to thank my Kill Consultant, Lighthouse (**NegativeSpaces**) for helping me come up with the shit that makes my stories so ~meaningful, lmao, and also for helping me figure out how to creatively kill people.

Well, there you have it. Enjoy!

* * *

As soon as you leave the stage to the sound of thundering applause and head inside the Capitol building, you're greeted by two Peacekeepers who pat you on the back and congratulate you. You recognize them as friends of your father- your father is friends with _all_ the Peacekeepers, actually- and their enthusiasm only serves to hype you up even more. You're beyond ecstatic that your name was called, and even though you were expecting it, you're still in such shocked disbelief that you're kind of floating through reality at the moment. You're floored that your district actually voted for _you_ to be the female tribute. You feel honored to be chosen for such an important job, and you're determined not to let them down- you're determined to _win_.

As the two Peacekeepers lead you down the hallway and into a lobby to wait for your family to appear so you can say your farewells, you flash them a winning smile, letting them know you're grateful for their support. When you reach the small lobby, carpeted with a plush, round blood-red rug emblazoned with the seal of the Capitol, District 2's Head Peacekeeper, Couter, greets you with a dumb grin, shooting you a double thumbs-up from his spot near the window. You send him a small wave back, and then your father comes around the corner and meets you, crushing you to him in a hug that steals the air from your lungs.

"I'm so proud of you," he mutters, and you feel your heart pounding at his words. You're still flying.

You smile against his shoulder and hug his waist tightly, glad for his approval. You're over the moon, dancing on air, pleased with yourself and excited all at once. You've _made it_. You've been training for years to reach this day, and _now it's here_. You don't think about what's coming, or the fact that you'll have to outlast twenty-three other kids- one of them Jesse- you only think about how thrilled you are to be among those selected to compete in the most important Games in existence. You only think about your family's honor, your district's reputation, and how grateful you are to be serving the Capitol.

You will come home as a victor. There's no other option- not when you've worked so hard to get here. Not when your father's got that glowing look in his eye. Not when all the Peacekeepers are still giving you obvious supportive gestures.

After your father releases you from your hug, he stands back, digging into his pocket for a moment. He reaches for your hand, and you blink at him as he places the object he'd pulled from his pocket in your palm.

"I want you to have this," he says, his voice low and hoarse with emotion. "Wear it as your token."

You nod absently, studying the set of metal tags, attached to a thin chain, your father's just given you. They look like military ID tags, and they're engraved with a string of eight numbers and your last name- Pierce- on one side. On the other side is an engraving of what looks like a jabberjay, and at your questioning look, your father chuckles.

"During the Rebellion, my job was in espionage," he explains with a half-hearted shrug. You swallow thickly. You knew he'd been part of the group that worked with the jabberjays, but you'd never even seen any of his old Peacekeeper stuff before, and the fact that he's entrusting you with his old ID tags means more than you ever thought possible.

"Thank you," you whisper, still shocked to the core that you're holding something so precious.

Your father smiles. "You've earned it, Britty," he tells you, taking the necklace from your hand and carefully guiding it over your head. The tags settle against your breastbone, and the cool metal quickly warms against your skin as your heart pounds with a myriad of different emotions. You struggle for what to say when your mother and sister come in, all smiles, and each take a turn hugging you.

"Don't lose," Ashley comments nonchalantly, offering you a shrug, and you shake your head, grinning triumphantly at her.

"She won't," your mother interjects before you have a chance to answer. She cups your face and strokes a thumb over your cheek, gazing kindly into your eyes. You soften your smile for her. "I _know_ she won't." She taps the tags hanging around your neck, letting you know that she sees them, and she offers you a knowing, proud look; you nod.

"Make me proud, Britty," your father adds, and you straighten up as he places his familiar hand on your shoulder. It both comforts and intimidates you normally, but today, combined with the tags resting against your chest, you draw strength from it. "Make our _district_ proud."

"I will," you promise, and then Couter waves his hand, gaining your attention from over your father's shoulder. When your eyes meet his, he nods, and you swallow your nervous excitement.

It's time.

"I've gotta go," you mutter, stepping back from your family. Your family who all watch you without a shred of sadness or regret or worry. They're all confident in your abilities, in your win. Which means you are, too.

"That's my girl. Knock 'em dead!" your father calls as you turn away.

You pause, processing the truth of his words, and throw over your shoulder,

"I _will_."

* * *

Couter guides you to Sugar, who enthusiastically leads you onto the silver train that will take you to the Capitol. You've never been there, but your father has, and he's told you stories all your life. You're eager to see what it's like in person, and when you win the Hunger Games, you're sure you'll visit it regularly. You can't wait.

On the train you meet April, the victor of a previous Games and assigned to be your mentor this year. There's other victors, of course- the winner from last year, Hank, who's assigned to Jesse, and the other three, who are just along for the ride- and to offer advice.

All of them are drunk when you arrive.

You've seen April before, but you've never actually interacted with her- you've never had _reason_ to. You know she was on the stage when your name was called, but you were far too busy being distracted with nerves, excitement, and the proud look on your father's face to notice. She's usually _always_ drunk, but at least she's the happy kind.

You cast Hank, who's sitting in the corner staring off into space, a fleeting glance. His face is blank, and he's swaying a little even sitting down, which clues you in to how plastered he is. You know he's just finished his Victory Tour, and that he had a particularly rough time in the Games. The female tribute from last year, a girl named Harmony, had been a close friend of his in training, but you know he should've known better than to get attached. You'd hooked up with a few people in the Academy, but you knew it was just to take the edge off of training, that it was just for fun. There wasn't anything beyond relieving your own tension and satisfying your own needs. You weren't there to meet people.

You were there to learn how to eliminate them.

You look at Jesse sitting in a chair across from April; you _definitely_ won't make the mistake of befriending him.

As you approach April, the first thing she does is offer you a glass of wine from a box. You politely decline, instead wondering if you should discuss your strategy with her, if she could offer you some tips. If _anyone_ could offer you some tips- not that you need them, but it can't hurt. You look around the room at the other mentors, all in similarly incapacitated states, and decide you're probably not going to get much help from any of them, which is fine with you. You're completely prepared. You volunteered for this, after all. You settle down into a chair at the table and grab yourself a sweet tart.

It's not a very long ride to the Capitol, considering your district borders it, but it's long enough to allow for a conversation. You decide it can't hurt to see if April can offer you some advice, or give you some inside perspective. You ask her if she has any of either, and she downs her glass of wine in response.

"Pssh," she scoffs loudly, bending to pour herself another glass. You wonder how many she's had. "You don't need me. One of you is _definitely_ gonna win- and my money's on blondie over here." She waves her hand at you, and you sit, stunned, at her words. Is she talking to you _and_ Jesse, or just you? April cackles and takes a sip of her new glass of wine, and you glance over at Jesse, who has his eyes narrowed from April's words as he scrutinizes you, sizing you up. Making you a _target_. You'll have to take him out quickly, you decide. He could be dangerous.

"I'm glad you brought that up," Sugar says, bored, from across the table. You almost forgot she was there, she'd been so unusually quiet. She repositions herself in the chair she's lounging in, reaching to grab a small pastry off a plate piled high with them. She pops the sweet into her mouth and shrugs as if she's talking about the weather. "Obviously, one of you is going to win, so I'm really not too worried about it."

April nods, the gesture much bigger than it should be because of her inebriated state. "It's gonna be Betty," she slurs.

"Brittany," you correct with a lopsided smile. You hope you're as carefree as she is when you're a mentor. Somehow, you feel like you'll take your job a lot more seriously, however. You look over at Hank to see if he will refute April's statement, but he sits in the same position staring at the wall. The other mentors present don't even look like they're listening or paying attention, and why should they? In their mind, either you or Jesse is going to win, regardless of whatever they do. You've both trained hard and spent years preparing. It's out of their hands now, but still… Jesse looks furious at April's declaration, and at Hank's incapability to deny it.

You guess you'd be pretty upset if someone told _you_ you were going to lose despite everything, too.

"Whatever," April says with a smile that makes it impossible for anyone to be angry with her. Not that you were to begin with, but Jesse seems pretty angry, and- "_she's_ gonna be the victor."

"You don't know that," Jesse snaps.

April shrugs, sipping her wine, and Sugar leans forward.

"Jesse, why don't you share your strategy with us," Sugar offers. Jesse hesitates for a moment before he squares his shoulders and his eyes turn colder than they were. (You didn't know that was possible.)

"Slaughter everyone," he says with total seriousness, and you almost laugh.

April nods. "A classic approach," she encourages. "Obvious, dull, and lacking in creativity, of course, but _classic_. I like it!"

Sugar shrugs, noncommittal. "Meh; it's good, but it's nothing I haven't heard before," she starts slowly, sounding disappointed. "What about you, Britt?"

You startle slightly at the nickname; you're not used to anyone but your father calling you something endearing, but you decide not to correct her. You don't mind. Instead, you smile and say in a deadpan, "Wait for Jesse to slaughter everyone."

April and Sugar laugh like you told a joke. Jesse glares at you calculatingly; he doesn't buy you, not for a second, and you know it. He sees past the carefree, bubbly façade you present, and that only cements your earlier decision to make him a priority. You keep your emotions in check and smile politely, but Jesse doesn't return it. His eyes are like steel as he challenges you with his gaze, and you refuse to back down, wondering instead how he'll try to kill you and wishing you'd paid more attention to his stats in Academy.

"Well, now," Sugar interrupts, and the sound of her snatching up the remote for the television breaks the heavy tension in the air; you refocus your attention to the TV as it comes on, studying the faces that greet you.

The Reaping happens at different times in each district so that the other districts can watch, usually with the districts farthest from the Capitol going early in the day, since their tributes have to travel the farthest. You watch the names for the current Reaping in District 3 get called, and the tributes react in typical fashion for those who don't live in a district operated with a volunteer system like your own- they cry, and blubber, and you can't help but roll your eyes. Both of the tributes wear glasses, and you shake your head a little at what a disadvantage that is.

"These are your opponents," Sugar says, gesturing to the tear-stained faces on the television. You're definitely not impressed.

"They don't stand a chance," Jesse sneers, saying what you're all thinking, but you know he's not just talking about the other tributes- not with the way his gaze is still burning holes into you. He's talking about you, too, and you ignore his attempt to intimidate you, staying quiet as the Reaping highlights cut to the next district, District 9.

The boy is a few years younger than you, you can tell by the shape of his face. His skin is tan, probably from working out in the fields. District 9 produces grain, so you know they have a lot of farmlands for-

Your thoughts pause mid-sentence as the camera cuts to the girl tribute. You feel like maybe the air has left your lungs. The girl who takes the stage is probably the most beautiful girl you've ever seen. Her expression is blank and cold, but something in the brown of her eyes tells you that she's _devastated, _and the tightness of her jaw conveys that she's also _furious_. Without realizing it, admiration creeps into you; admiration that this girl can keep her composure even when faced with certain death, because honestly, you know that neither of them stands a chance against Jesse, let alone you.

The camera doesn't linger long, and within moments, the familiar voice of the Capitol's most famous television personality is recounting the Reaping in District 6. You don't spare another troubling thought for the beautiful girl from District 9, instead reaching up to touch the tags around your neck subconsciously, hearing your father's voice.

_They deserve this_.

You reach for another sweet tart.

* * *

You arrive to the screams and cheers of thousands of Capitol citizens who'd come to see your train. You wave to them, smiling winningly, and Jesse plays his part right beside you, looking handsome and charismatic, and if you didn't already know what a lethal scumbag he is, you might be fooled yourself by his boyish charms.

Sugar escorts you- waving, herself- into the Remake Center, to a room where you're greeted by two rotund women, one dark-skinned, and one pale. "This is your prep team," Sugar explains. "Your stylist will be along shortly. Be good!" She leads Jesse away to meet his own team, leaving you in the care of the two women.

"Hi," you say, and the two grin at each other silently, exchanging a glance that makes you slightly uncomfortable, if only because you feel left out. After a long moment watching them communicate with each other with just a look, the dark-skinned woman looks at you.

"I'm Mercedes," she offers. You look her over; she's dressed in a bright, lime green dress, with matching-colored eyelids, lips, and long, curled eyelashes.

"I'm Brittany," you say in return.

"We know," the pale woman chuckles. You're not sure how to respond, when Mercedes rolls her eyes.

"This is Lauren," she says, and you look over the large, paled-skinned woman. She's dressed in a yellow dress with patches of white fur at her shoulders; you think she looks like a lemon meringue pie. A _delicious_ lemon meringue pie. Your stomach growls, and you wish you'd eaten more on the train. You wonder if there will be any pie at dinner later.

"Nice to meet you," Lauren says cheerfully, drawing your attention back. You nod in response, and Mercedes smiles enthusiastically.

"Let's get started," she says, clapping her hands. "Kurt will be here shortly."

You nod again and move to lay down on the stainless steel table Mercedes guides you to. You wonder if Kurt is your stylist, and you hope he's the same one who did Harmony's outfit last year. Her dress was _phenomenal_.

You let your thoughts wander as Mercedes and Lauren get to work. You're not in bad shape- at least, you don't think you are based on the comments Mercedes and Lauren make as they wax, tweeze and rip at your body hair, then set to rubbing some awesome-smelling lotion over your tingling skin.

"To soften it," Mercedes tells you, then adds, "though your skin is very soft already."

"District Two's always are," Lauren comments as she brushes out your long, blonde hair.

"What does that mean?" you wonder.

Mercedes and Lauren exchange another look, but don't answer. After some unknown amount of time, they step back, nodding in approval. Lauren offers Mercedes a low five, and you feel your skin prickling all over, but not in a bad way. You feel clean and a little rejuvenated. Also, completely naked. But you don't really care. You're not shy, and you feel pretty confident about your body. Besides, Mercedes and Lauren don't seem the slighteat bit interested in anything but their job. They make one last sweep over your body, then, satisfied, they exit, leaving you standing in the center of the room. Waiting.

When the door reopens, a young man, maybe a few years older than you, enters. He has brown hair which is longer on top and swept over in a sort of wave, highlighted with gold. He wears a velvet vest which is such a dark shade of purple it almost looks black; beneath is an off-white dress shirt, with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, exposing the pale skin of his forearms which are adorned with swirling black-and-gold tattoos. Around his neck, he wears a handsomely-striped scarf. He looks- well, _crazy_.

But you recognize him as the stylist from the past few years, and you let out a small sigh of relief.

"Brittany," he greets, clapping his hands together in front of his chest. His eyes scan your body, and you do your best to smile at him. After he makes one circle around you, he moves closer, reaching up to cup your face. He tilts your head to the side, examining you.

"I saw your Reaping," he tells you enthusiastically. "Your dress was _divine_- it really brought out your eyes." He catches your gaze and smiles. "Your eyes are beautiful, the perfect shade of blue. And that's what we'll focus on."

You don't argue, instead following his instructions as he begins to dress you in a variant of a Peacekeeper uniform. "Because your father's a Peacekeeper," he says as he works, fitting pristine white tactical plates to your shoulders. You feel awkward wearing a uniform you don't think you deserve, but again, you're not one to argue. You trust Kurt.

After an hour or so, you're standing dressed in a very scant version of a Peacekeeper outfit, with a tight white top that cuts off just below your breasts, skintight white pants with a black stripe down the side, and black boots that rise almost to your knees. Across your chest is a white ammunition belt, with a second one hanging loosely around your hips. Your blonde hair is in a ponytail, keeping it off your face, and the make-up Kurt has chosen is glittery around your eyes, accenting them, as planned.

"The Peacekeepers are what won the War for the Capitol," Kurt tells you as he fixes your collar. "They are very well-loved and admired here. The Districts, however… well, let's just remember that we're not here to win the _Districts_ over. My job is to get the Capitol to favor you, and in this outfit, they will."

He steps back to give you one more look, then reaches into his bag.

"One more thing," he says, pulling out a white, automatic weapon. He hands it to you, and you take it hesitantly, unsure if you should be handling something you're definitely not allowed to even have. "It's not real," he assures you. "It's just for show."

You nod, feeling a lot better as you sling the strap of the shiny white gun over your shoulder, and Kurt looks at his wrist, where there's no watch attached. You wonder if his tattoos are a watch, but you have no idea how that would even work.

"You're ready," he says with a grin, and you take a deep breath.

* * *

When you climb into the chariot that will lead you to the City Circle, you find Jesse in a matching Peacekeeper outfit, though he is completely shirtless, with just the shoulder plates and ammo belt across his broad, muscled chest. You have to admit, he looks good, and when he flashes a charming smile to the crowd as your horses move, you definitely can see his appeal.

You smile, yourself, and wave, hearing your name chanted by the crowd. You catch sight of yourself on the larger-than-life television screen broadcasting the parade as you pass it, and you're impressed with how blue your eyes look. It's the only color on you, and they definitely stand out.

Kurt's kind of a genius.

When the Parade ends at the City Circle, and President Sylvester makes her appearance from the balcony of her mansion, you feel your stomach tense. The woman is even scarier in person, but you make sure not to let your unease show on your face, keeping your dazzling smile in place.

Then, your chariot leads you into the Training Center building, slowing to a stop. You dismount, and your prep team greets you, cheering at how splendid you were. You can't help but smile and thank them, and then Kurt finds you. He takes your fake weapon- _don't want anyone getting confused, _he says- and tells you to wait for Sugar to find you.

You stand near the chariot, petting one of the dark horses who'd pulled it, and look around. You can see the other tributes, dressed in various costumes. None of them look as cool as yours, though. The tributes of District 5 look like light bulbs or something, and as your eyes slide over to the right, they land on the girl from District 9.

You swallow, tracing your eyes over her. She's even more beautiful in person, and you're startled by the way your mouth goes dry at the sight of her, at the way your heart gives a slight leap. She's dressed in overalls, and if it was anyone else wearing them, they'd look silly, but on her, they look charming and endearing. You can't help your smile, and some of the admiration you'd felt earlier as you watched her Reaping returns.

That is, until you notice her expression.

She's glaring at you, looking disgustedly horrified, and you wonder if maybe she thinks you're an _actual_ Peacekeeper, and not a tribute. You look down at yourself, and at the way your entire midsection is bare and exposed, and realize that no one could really mistake you for an actual Peacekeeper. She _has_ to know you're a tribute. Didn't she watch the parade?

When you look back up, she's shaking her head, and you wave at her, almost automatically. You know you shouldn't interact with her, but something in you is drawing you to her, and you forget to think about the consequences. She looks shocked for a moment as you mouth _hi_ to her. She shakes her head more firmly before turning away. You stand, stunned for a moment, wondering why her reaction was so strong and so _negative_, but then you snap back to reality, and remind yourself not to care. She's probably just intimidated by how awesome you are. She knows better than to let her guard down. That _must_ be it.

Your eyes automatically slide down to her ass as she meets up with her escort, a tall, blonde woman wearing a hideous black dress, and you can't help but think that she really _is_ beautiful. It's kind of a shame she's been chosen, that she'll have to die. You wonder how that happened- because District 9 doesn't have a slew of _volunteers_. Their tributes were actually _voted_ _for_ by their districts, and you know that the Games are not held in the same esteem as they are in your district.

What did she do to earn her place here?

You shrug your concern and curiosity away, reminding yourself again that it doesn't matter. You reach to touch your token, which is still around your neck. It reassures you as you watch the girl from District 9 walk away with her escort.

_They deserve this._

* * *

**Oookay. So next chapter will be Training, and Brittana will actually have their first real conversation. GOODY! **

**Review if you feel like it, but if not, that's okay. You can hang onto your words until the end, lol. Or forever. I mean, they're your words. You can do whatever you want with them! :***

**See you next time, pals! **


	3. Strategy

**A/N:** Hi, peeps! Meant to have this up yesterday, but I got tied up, and not even in the wanky way. Shucks!

Glad you guys are enjoying the story so far! I'm hopefully gonna start updating faster to get this story done quicker, so hang in there.

Once again, thanks to my Wall, Dakota (**Perfectly Censored**) and my Kill Consultant, Lighthouse (**Negative Spaces**) for all their beautiful insight. And also, did you see Lighthouse updated **Battlesong**? Yeah, ya'll should read that, a-sap! :D

Okay, I'll shut up.

* * *

After the Parade, Sugar escorts you, Kurt, Sebastian- Jesse's stylist- and the entourage of mentors- including April and Hank- up to your suite in the Training Center building. You're located on the second floor, and you'd be lying if you said you weren't impressed with the size and technology present in the suite. Sugar shows you to your room, and Kurt gives you something to change into before dinner, which you're grateful for. The Peacekeeper outfit is awesome, but maybe just a little inappropriate to eat in.

When you're dressed in simple trousers and a top that hangs off your left shoulder, you quickly brush your hair out and return to the main room for dinner, where you find everyone already seated and the mentors already well on their way to their usual intoxicated state.

"So, basically- you were great," Sugar says casually as she butters a roll. The mentors- with the exception of Hank- all cheer at her statement, using it as an excuse to toast another drink. You can't help but smile in amusement at their drunken enthusiasm. You remain mostly quiet as Jesse boasts about how intimidating he's going to be at Training in the morning, and try not to roll your eyes- outwardly, at least. You have to give Sugar credit for not outright laughing at him.

Well, most of the time. She _does_ laugh a little.

You honestly wonder if Jesse can actually live up to his own hype, but the last thing you want to do is underestimate him. You feel a little sorry for him- he doesn't seem all that clever, so he basically _has_ to rely on his strength and skill alone. Hank certainly isn't helping him.

You look at April. She isn't exactly helping you, either, but you don't really need it. You're confident in your abilities. You'll be meeting with her at breakfast, before Training starts at ten, and you'll discuss your strategy with her then. You won't turn down her advice- after all, she _is_ a victor. She has to know _something _valuable.

Once you finish dinner, Sugar turns on the giant television, and you all gather around to watch yourselves in the replay of the Tribute Parade. You have to admit, your eyes look haunting and memorable. And your abs look fabulous. Kurt really outdid himself from last year, though you remember Harmony stood out, as well. Beside you, Jesse looks strong and- _manly_, you suppose- in the chariot, and together, you both look unstoppable.

The only other tributes that look like they stand a chance are the ones from District 1: a tall, oafish boy and a blonde girl. They're dressed in shimmering outfits to reflect the precious metals that come from their District. They look good, but they don't stand out- not the way you and Jesse do.

Not the way the girl from District 9 does.

You don't know what it is about her; her overalls aren't particularly flashy, and though she smiles, you can see it doesn't reach her eyes. You're- _intrigued_ by her, really. You don't know what else to call what you're feeling as you watch her ride in the chariot, waving and looking stunning with her perfect smile and flawless hair. The thought that she's in the same building as you right now, just a few floors up, fills you with a jittery sort of energy.

It's not until after District 10 makes an appearance that you realize you didn't even catch the girl's name.

* * *

The next morning, you take a very entertaining shower before dressing in the clothes Kurt had laid out for you the night before: a simple, dark gray, tight v-neck shirt and black, lightweight pants- easy to move around in. You smile; you won't be doing much moving around.

You make your way down to breakfast to find April waiting for you, already hammered. You roll your eyes to the ceiling as you take your seat at the table and begin piling your plate up with eggs and bacon.

"Where's everyone else?" you wonder as you pour some kind of sweet-smelling syrup over- well, _all_ of your breakfast. Why not?

April smiles lazily before taking a sip from her glass, which has a pink-colored liquid in it. "Jesse's already down in the gym. And th' otherssss are…" she pauses to look around, seeming surprised that the other mentors are nowhere to be found. After a moment, she shrugs. "Prob'ly sleepin'."

You wonder how she didn't notice if the other mentors came down for breakfast or not, but as she downs her glass, you remind yourself that that answer is fairly obvious. You take another bite of your eggs.

"Soo-ooo," April slurs, sending you a sly look that makes you grin in spite of yourself. "I take it you want some of my advice?" You nod silently, tearing into a piece of sausage.

"Well, I've been doing this fer a while," she says, her head wobbling. "And I can tell you're already pretty prepared, so my advice?" She pauses, looking you in the face. "Have some fun."

Your eyebrows rise in surprise. She nods in a drunken, exaggerated way, and continues, "They already know you're from District 2, and that you volunteered. They already know you've probably trained for this. And Jesse is going to go in there, all macho-man with that sexy chest of his and those sexy shoulders…"

Your eyebrows furrow at her words. "What?"

"What I'm _saying_ is, Betsy, you need to go in there and _surprise_ them. They already know what you're caple... capapa... what you can do. I mean, you're from District 2." She giggles. "Mess with 'em. The more you rattle 'em, the easier it's gonna be to kill 'em later." She hiccups, then sits back in her chair, waving you away.

"Have some _fun."_

You smile all the way down to the basement, which is where the gymnasium is located.

When you get there, someone pins a cloth square with the number _2_ to the back of your shirt. You silently wait for everyone to arrive; the boy from District 11 is late, but once all the tributes are present, a man named David informs you that he is the Head Trainer, and gives you a break-down of the rules.

You're not surprised- they're all painfully obvious. No fighting with the other tributes. Don't kill anyone. Focus on life-saving skills instead of just weapons. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Once David releases you, you wait for a moment and just watch where the others go. Jesse heads straight to the Swords station, picks up the deadliest-looking blade on the rack, and sets to work making himself look as threatening as possible. You can't help but roll your eyes. _Some strategy_.

The blonde boy from District 4 goes to the Hand-to-Hand Combat station. The tributes from District 1 go to Spears. Even the tall boy from District 11 with the strange hairstyle goes to Axes, and you're left standing, looking around at who's left. Judging by the wide, fearful expressions, you're certain the other tributes have never even _handled_ a weapon before, much less engaged someone with it; it would definitely explain their timid hesitation.

You meander your way through the room, thinking about what April said_. Mess with 'em_. As you walk, you look at the stations. Sickles. Archery. Tridents. Wrestling-

You pause.

Hammock-making.

You look up at the ginger-haired female Trainer, who's staring at you with wide, hopeful eyes, and smile. You can't exactly fathom having enough time to build a hammock once you're in the arena, nevermind _use_ one, but it certainly can't hurt to learn.

Who knows- maybe it might come in handy.

You can feel eyes on you as you settle into listening to the Trainer explain how to weave various plants into a hammock, and it makes you laugh to yourself.

You're definitely surprising everyone.

* * *

You spend the entire morning making hammocks, tying knots, and studying edible insects. Every so often you catch Jesse's looks of rage, the District 1 tributes' looks of shock, or even the girl from District 9's looks of curiosity, and it amuses you. When you get to the camouflage station, the girl from District 6 is there, practicing. She's tall and thin and fragile-looking, with brown hair and kind, soft eyes, and you wonder how such a seemingly nice person got voted into the Games.

You don't ask. You know better.

In your mind, you make up a background story for her instead; maybe she deals in morphling- it would explain her thin build and paleness. Maybe she volunteered for someone, like you, though not at all _like you_. Maybe she's secretly a harlot. You enjoy the horrible backstories you create, and try not to focus on how actually horrible you are at camouflage. You struggle with the berry juice you're smearing on your arm; it definitely looks more like a wound than camouflage. The girl giggles at you, and you shoot her a look of disbelief.

"You're supposed to be hiding your skin, not making it stand out," she says softly. You just barely crack a smile at her genuineness before you realize what a mistake you've made. You don't want to encourage her, or befriend her. You don't have time or the capacity to do that. You remind yourself that she's just a tribute- a tribute from a _lesser_ District. She's weak and frail and she'll probably die in the initial bloodbath. You won't see her ever again after Day 1 in the arena. You certainly can't waste time getting to know someone- _especially_ someone from a lesser District. She's just a body- a _corpse_. She's not a person.

"I'm Marley," she offers, shy and quiet, and you press your lips together tightly and curse yourself for interacting with her in the first place. Now she has a _name_. Now she has an identity, now she's more than just someone standing in your path. You look up from the bowl of berry juice and stare at her face, her expression hopeful and scared, resigned. You imagine seeing it in the arena, and you feel your resolve still firmly in place. You know you won't hesitate to kill her when the time comes.

But you might actually feel a little bad about it.

The sound of Jesse's sword clanging against his Trainer's catches your attention, and deep down you hope that maybe, if it comes down to it, he'll be the one to kill her. You don't want to have to do it. There's 22 other tributes you can focus on, right?

"It was nice to meet you, Marley," you tell her, keeping your voice flat and emotionless.

You hope Jesse finds her in the arena before you do as you move to another station without another word.

* * *

You're sitting at a table alone, eating your lunch, when you spot the two tributes from District 1 carrying their lunch trays over to you and you sigh. You knew this was coming, but you're not sure how to proceed. You don't really want to have the conversation you know you have to have; you don't want to make yourself a target, but at the same time, you don't want to join up with anyone. Your strategy is largely dependent on how the other tributes respond to you, so you know you have to be careful.

Without asking, the blonde girl plops down in the seat across from yours. The tall boy sits next to her, and you don't look up from eating your stew. You can almost feel eyes on you; Jesse's and the others. You wonder if the girl from District 9 is staring at you before you shove the thought out of your mind. You haven't thought about her all morning-

"It's Brittany, right?" the girl asks, and the sharp commanding tone of her voice makes you raise your eyes to meet her gaze. She's extremely good-looking, though not really your type. Her blonde hair is cropped at the level of her chin, and her hazel eyes are both intense and intimidating as she stares pointedly at you, waiting for your response. You hold her glare for a long moment, keeping your eyes fixed on her, refusing to look away until, finally, her lips quirk up into a tiny smile.

"That's right," you say steadily, and she nods.

"I'm Quinn Fabray," she tells you. She gestures to the boy at her side. "This is Finn."

You nod in response, then resume eating as the tributes- Finn and Quinn, and you wonder if they're related because their names rhyme- talk to you about how important alliances are going to be in the arena. You agree, but don't take the bait. You don't want an alliance. You're better off keeping your skill hidden as long as possible.

After her short spiel, Quinn leans forward. "So, do you want to be allies?"

You stare at her. You're pretty sure you trust her as much as you trust Jesse, so the chances of you allying with her are about zero. You don't want to laugh in her face, though, so you offer up an aloof shrug, keeping your total aversion to the idea hidden. You swallow and tell her slowly, "Thanks, but- I'm okay."

Quinn shrugs, indifferent. "Okay. Your choice."

But you can tell she's not happy. Her hazel eyes seem to be hiding a storm behind them, and it would scare you a little if you didn't think Quinn was batshit crazy. Beside her, Finn watches you, his eyes narrowed as he chews his food. You eat the rest of your lunch in awkward silence, wondering if maybe you made a huge mistake.

* * *

After lunch, you continue to wander around, studying the other tributes. The blonde-haired, big-lipped boy from District 4 has moved on from Hand-to-Hand Combat and is busy repeatedly throwing a spear through the heart of a dummy. You roll your eyes, unimpressed- you're pretty sure he could have kept his shirt on. You don't seem to be having a problem keeping yours on, after all.

Jesse has also moved on, this time to Axes. He makes a lot of noise, and you can tell he's trying too hard to show everyone what an expert he is. The only problem is, he _is_ an expert. He has near-perfect form, and because of his large, muscled stature, his swings are more powerful than you'll ever be able to achieve. It only reaffirms that you'll have to take him out _quickly._ If he reaches the cornucopia in the arena, he'll definitely be more of a threat.

Absently, you look for the girl from District 9 as you move. When your eyes finally find her, she's alone at the archery station, and being a rather unfortunate shot, it seems. You watch her for a moment; you can tell she's quickly growing frustrated. You trace your eyes down her body and find her off-balance, which is contributing to her poor aim. She's too unstable, and you shake your head, cringing a little. You look for the Trainer, and find him standing off to the side, sorting through arrows. You chew your lip for a moment, debating, and then, before you can think better of it, you make your way over.

"Your stance is wrong," you call as you approach, and she whips her head to glare at you over her right shoulder. Her right arm is locked straight out, gripping the shiny silver bow. It occurs to you as you study her that she's left-handed, and you can't help but find it intriguing. You're finding _everything_ about her to be intriguing, which is probably going to turn into a huge problem for you, but at the moment you can't find it in you to care. You move closer.

The girl remains silent, not tearing her glare from you, and you lick your lips before adding, "You should try and distribute your weight evenly." You reach her side, waiting for her to speak, and when she doesn't, you take it as a cue to continue. You pick up a bow from the rack, draw an arrow from the quiver slung over her shoulder- not missing the surprised look she shoots you at the action- and knock it to your bowstring quickly.

"And turn your body more. Like…" You trail off; then, as if turning on a switch inside you, you step quickly into perfect position, drawing back your bow in one fluid, powerful pull, aim, and release the string, all in the span of about three seconds. The arrow embeds into the dead center of the bullseye before you can blink, and you lower the bow slowly, turning to find the girl beside you. Her jaw is tense with anger again, and her brown eyes burn as they glare at you. Your stomach tightens, and you wonder what you did wrong.

You open your mouth to speak, but before you can, the girl from District 9 is moving away. She slams her bow back on the rack, throws down her quiver, and storms off, leaving you watching after her. You take a deep, slow breath, utterly perplexed at the sudden hostile attitude.

"Your form is _perfect_!" the archery Trainer says enthusiastically from your right, and you blink incredulously at him. _Now_ he wants to help? He must sense your resentment, because he offers you a shrug. "Don't take it personal. I tried to help her- she shrugged me off, too."

You nod absently, turning to look in the direction the District 9 girl had gone. You don't find her, though, and it makes you feel- _uneasy_. Like you want to apologize, but you don't know what for. You were just trying to help. You hope your face doesn't reflect your emotions as you turn back to thank the Trainer, but when you find him again, you snap your mouth closed as you realize who's watching you from across the room.

Finn and Quinn.

* * *

Dinner is uneventful. The television shows an endless loop of scenes from the Reaping and the Tribute Parade, as well as interviews with several famous people from the Capitol, who give their speculation on this year's tributes. You eat with April, Hank, Jesse, and Sugar, who grills you about training, making sure you're keeping your skills _in shape_- as if you could lose them in the span of just a few days.

You answer her questions dutifully, listening to Jesse brag about how intimidating he was, and noting the absence of the other mentors. When you ask April about it, however, she offers you a shrug in between pouring herself- what else- another glass of alcohol, this time sky blue in color.

"They're probably up on the roof," she slurs, sounding even more unhinged than when you spoke to her this morning. You wonder if she did anything all day other than drink herself into a stupor, and kind of can't wait to live such a carefree existence.

"The roof?" you wonder out loud. You had no idea you could even go up there.

"It's quite lovely," Sugar tells you with an eager nod. "You should both see it when you get the chance. There's an awesome garden, and-"

"I don't have time for _flowers,"_ Jesse sneers, standing from the table. He stretches his arms above his head for a moment before turning to leave. "I'm going to bed. I'm getting up early tomorrow- _to train_."

You roll your eyes. You don't feel tired, but then again, you didn't spend all day proving to a group of unprepared pansies what a macho manly man you are. In fact, you're pretty interested in the garden Sugar mentioned.

"It sounds nice," you say.

Sugar waves you up. "Go see it! Take the elevator. Obviously."

You nod, finishing your plate of food, and your Avox- a large man who looks only a few years older than you- begins clearing it away. You exit your suite and head to the elevator, taking it to the top. You've ridden in elevators before, but the Training Center one is by far the coolest. Because the walls are made of glass, you can see everything shrink as you rise. It gives the illusion that you're flying.

When you reach the top, you climb the stairs that lead to the roof, and smile as the cool night air hits your face. You venture over to the edge of the roof, looking out below at the crowds of celebrating Capitol citizens, throwing parties all down the streets. You can't help but grin at the thought that soon there will be parties celebrating your _victory_, and every year after, you'll be able to travel to the Capitol to party with April, and Hank, and the other mentors.

Speaking of which-

You turn away from the edge and look around, spotting the garden on the other side. It's huge, and you wonder how you could've missed it before, but as you make your way over to it, you realize that's its empty, and that April was wrong. You feel kind of silly for believing she _wouldn't_ be. Still, you want to see the garden. You take another step, but movement from your right catches your attention, and you turn, your eyes widening as you recognize who it is.

It's the girl from District 9.

You hesitate, unsure what to say. You know you want to say _something_. You feel like maybe you should apologize for earlier, but you're not sure what you would even apologize for. You run through a hundred things in your head, feeling stupid; you've never been nervous, not really. You see what you want and go after it. But you're not entirely sure _what_ you even want-

"I saw your Reaping," you blurt, finding brown eyes staring back at you harshly.

"Of course you did- so did all of Panem," the girl spits angrily, and you swallow the bitter feeling that's spreading through you at her hostility.

You shrug, trying to ignore her- in your mind- unwarranted anger, and continue with the semblance of conversation you're having. "You looked-" you struggle for words, trying to describe the way she'd looked in her green dress, the way it had complemented her brown eyes, the way-

"What the fuck are you playing at?" The girl hisses, her words cutting through your attempt at being nice.

"I'm Brittany," you try one last time.

She shakes her head, her dark, soft-looking hair shimmering in the lights from the city and making you bite your lip. "I don't care," she snaps. "I don't _care_ who you are. I don't care how fast or how strong or how _nice_ you are, because in five more days, _it won't matter_."

You're at a loss. You can't fault her logic- she's right. And if you don't kill her, someone else will. Jesse will. Or Quinn.

Or you.

She laughs bitterly at your silence, dropping her gaze and breaking your eye contact. "I know I'm right, you don't have to say anything," she mutters. You watch as she ducks her head, avoiding your eyes as she quickly makes her way past you and to the stairs, disappearing down them seconds later and leaving you alone on the roof.

You don't regret having to kill her soon. You don't even really think you'll mind killing her, really. She's been nothing but hostile towards you, despite your best efforts. And yet…

You want to know who she is. You want to at least know her name. You resolve to pay closer attention to her over the next few days, to figure out who she is.

For some reason, you want to remember her.

* * *

**Aiight, whatever, shit's gonna start picking up in the next few chapters as we get closer to…. THE GAMES! DUN DUN DAAA!**

**What do ya'll HG-savvy peeps think of my tribute choices? I thought long and hard about them! LOL you'll be meeting some other tributes, obvs, as we progress in the story, so stay tuned! **

**Or don't. I guess. Hahahaa...**

**Leave a review if ya want! But if not, I'll catch you soon, I hope!**

**See you around, pals! :D**

* * *

***for those waiting on an update for **Savage**!, I have not abandoned that story; chapter 8 is in the works, and as soon as this is complete within the next two weeks, I will be back to my regularly scheduled fics! Promise! :D


	4. Allies

**A/N:** Hi everyone. Sorry for the wait; I went on an impromptu trip to Disney World with my family this weekend, so, you know. I didn't get a chance to write. And then, you know. BRITTANA. So, I've been dying repeatedly for a while. In fact, I'm writing this from my grave!

Thanks to everyone who read or reviewed or both'd the last chapter. You guys are awesome!

I'd like to once again thank my Wall (**Perfectly Censored**) and my Kill Consultant (**NegativeSpaces**) for helping me with this chapter. You guys are da bes~

Okay, bye!

* * *

On Day 2 of Training, you're not surprised to find Jesse already gone by the time you make it down to breakfast. Again, it's only April at the table, but she's reclining in her chair snoring loudly, her right hand clutching a glass half-filled with some kind of alcohol that's dangerously close to spilling out onto the carpet due to the angle of her body. Every so often, she mutters something unintelligible, but other than that and her comical-sounding snores, it's completely quiet, and you're left to your own thoughts.

You try not to think about the girl from District 9, though you can't stop replaying your conversation with her on the roof last night. You don't want to think about her; she's _nothing_ to you. You came here to win, and unlike her, you _want_ to be here. That must be why she's so angry- she doesn't want to die.

You stab a fork into your hotcakes, pausing to pour an ungodly amount of sweet syrup on top. Even being well off in District 2, syrup is expensive and rare, and you haven't had much of it over your lifetime. You've earned your place here, so you might as well enjoy it while you can, right?

At least, until your Victory Tour.

You smile and, with a shrug, pour the rest of the syrup on your plate.

When you've finished, you head down to Training, clearing your mind of everything except remaining indifferent and aloof. Yesterday you were taken off-guard by the other tributes, but today, you're going to project an entirely different image. You're going to completely ignore _everyone_.

The doors to the Training Center slide open, and you're greeted with the sight of most of the other tributes already at work at their chosen stations. Jesse is at the Wrestling station, pinning his opponent to the ground. Finn and Quinn are inseparable at the Fire station, successfully starting a fire, which clues you in to the fact that they are leagues smarter than Jesse. You'll have to keep your eyes on them, too.

You look for the only empty station, which is Snares, and make your way over. You spot the girl from District 9 at Archery again on your way, but this time, she's not struggling. Her weight is evenly dispersed, and her arrows are at least hitting the shadowed part of the target. You watch her for a moment before you realize you've given her your attention; her brown eyes meet yours for a second, narrowed and challenging, and you silently chastise yourself as you turn away, focusing on the station before you.

You hope no one saw you watching her, but, knowing your luck, the District 1 tributes probably had nothing better to do, having mastered Fire. You sigh and get to work.

Or at least, you try to. Now that the girl from District 9 has entered your thoughts again, and she's standing so close- well, across-the-room-close- you're having a hard time thinking about anything else. You replay last night on the roof again, and wonder why she was so harsh to you before you realize that it _bothers_ you, and you're not sure why. You don't care about her opinion, you don't care about her, and yet, you have to actively force yourself not to look for her, not to find her eyes, not to wonder what station she's at.

It's frustrating, because you don't know why the desire to see her even _exists_ inside you. She's beautiful, of course she is. But so is Quinn, and you're not actively trying to look for _her_; in fact, Quinn has been a whole lot nicer to you, too. You'd have far more reason to find Quinn than that District 9 girl.

You spend the rest of the morning on Snares and Edible Plants, remaining silent and solitary. At lunchtime, you're not surprised when the pair of tributes from District 1 approach you again. As they sit down, you look around casually, wondering if anyone thinks you've formed an alliance with them. It would be advantageous to you for the others to think that, but you don't have any desire to actually form an alliance with them. You work better on your own.

Jesse glares at you from his spot across the room, tearing into a steak so undercooked it seems like it should still be mooing. The fish-lipped boy from District 4 sits with the girl from District 5 and the boys from Districts 3 and 8, but all of the other tributes sit alone.

You can see the girl from District 9 watching you from her table, and you try not to let your gaze travel to her, though you're dying to find her brown eyes again. The thought scares you; you're not used to feeling like you have no control over yourself or your emotions. You're not used to feeling like this.

"So," Quinn starts, delicately lifting a roll up and watching you predatorily. "How was Archery yesterday?"

You're completely appalled that she's not only bringing that up, but that it's the first thing she wants to talk about. You gape at her, unsure how to respond. Quinn is proving to be dangerously perceptive, and you're unprepared to play against her manipulation.

"Listen, Brittany," she starts calmly, tearing the roll open and reaching for a knife. You watch her hand grip the knife carefully, as if you're watching a snake to see if it's about to strike or slither away. "I'm telling you this for your own good- you _don't_ want to be allies with Santana."

You struggle to analyze her words as she slathers some whipped butter onto her roll, but just when you think you've caught up, she keeps talking, leaning forward.  
"She messed up _big_ time, and if you put yourself on that level- which, why would you- you're crippling yourself. Trust me when I say, she will bring you nothing in terms of sponsors. You need allies like us- allies that can _help_ you."

"And kill me," you point out, stabbing your fork into a carrot.

Quinn shrugs, smirking. "No one can tell how the Games will go. But if you ally with her, you're definitely going to be putting yourself at a disadvantage."

"She was _voted in here_," Finn agrees, speaking for the first time, and you look at him incredulously. You'd kind of started to wonder if he was even capable of speech. "She's not a champion, not like you." He gestures to himself and Quinn. "Not like us."

"That's right," Quinn nods. "Her own District didn't even want her after what she did."

Your eyes dart nervously to the District 9 girl- to Santana- and find her sitting, looking sullen and picking at her plate, avoiding your gaze. You look back at Quinn and swallow. You know you shouldn't ask, but you're intrigued. You want to know. Even if it'll cost you later. "What did she do?"

Quinn shrugs again, sly and coy, and lifts a piece of a green vegetable you don't recognize up to her lips, before saying, "Who knows?"

But her expression and the tone of her voice let you know that _she_ knows, and she's gauging your response, testing your interest. You're trying to figure out what any of it could mean, but you don't know how Quinn could possibly use your curiosity against you. Your mind struggles to keep up, to get a step ahead of Quinn and figure out her motive, but honestly, you really don't care. Physically, she doesn't stand a chance against you in the arena. Finn, on the other hand- well, he's obviously the brawn of the relationship. It's obvious Quinn is manipulating him, but Finn must think he can outsmart or overpower her at the last minute, or that perhaps you will kill her for him. He wouldn't just willingly go to his own death at her hands, would he?

"She pissed the Mayor off," Finn says quietly, and Quinn shoots him a subtle glare, which only confirms that she had indeed been waiting to see if you'd take the bait. You process his words, chewing thoughtfully and trying to keep your expression blank, but you're shocked.

_The Mayor?_

Keeping your head down, you find Santana out of the corner of your eye. It's not easy to piss the Mayor off. You wonder what exactly she did. You wonder if Quinn will tell you. You wonder if you should ask-

"That's what they _say_," Quinn snaps, spearing another unknown green veggie. She fixes her intent, unsettling gaze on you. "She slept with the Mayor's daughter."

You're confused. That's it? That was her big crime? You thought maybe she assaulted a Peacekeeper, or stole goods from the Capitol, or attempted escape, or-

"How do you know?" You wonder out loud before you can think better of it.

Quinn smirks, but rolls her eyes. "Please. I know everything about everyone. Keep your enemies closer, right?"

You nod absently, darting a look to Santana again, who's now glaring at you from across the room, and wonder what Quinn knows about _you_. You don't have anything to hide, and you come from a prestigious background, so it's not like you have anything she can use against you, but still. It's not a comforting thought knowing Quinn's been digging around in your personal history.

Or, for some reason, Santana's.

"She _slept with the Mayor's daughter_," Finn repeats, disgustedly, and you clench your jaw. "It's unnatural. It's a good thing she's been put in here- she _should_ be exterminated."

"That's right," Quinn agrees, raising an eyebrow and watching you carefully for a reaction, which you refuse to give her. "So, you see, Brittany- you don't need someone _like_ _that_ on your team."

"I don't want her to be my ally," you admit, and Finn nods, smiling softly at you. Quinn visibly relaxes.

"I knew you'd make the smart choice. So-"

"I don't want _anyone_ to be my ally," you continue, keeping your voice calm and steady. You return the hardened glare Quinn shoots you as you say, "I'd rather take my chances on my own."

Quinn stiffens, and Finn drops his fork, but quickly recovers, shooting a look at Quinn, trying to determine what their response should be. You wait for Quinn to pick up her knife, analyzing what you can use to block her swing and how many seconds it will take you to get out of her reach. She looks angry enough to break the rules and attempt to murder you, so you're surprised when she smiles and laughs instead.

"It's the last time we will ask," Quinn says, shrugging, and beside her, you notice Finn relax. "Suit yourself." She gathers up her tray, and Finn hastily does the same thing, his utensils clattering against the plastic. As Quinn stands, leaving you to finish your lunch, she pauses to add, "Let's hope you won't _live_ to regret it, hm?"

She laughs, sounding almost like she's having a fun day at the beach or some other vacation that District 1 residents can afford, before walking away with Finn lumbering after her.

You watch her go and try not to think about the way Santana's eyes are still burning into you.

* * *

When Training resumes, you decide to play around with Shelters and Knots, but you don't miss when Quinn and Finn approach Santana at the Fishing station, or the way she smiles at their words, or the way the three of them continue to hang out for the duration of Training. It puzzles and infuriates you to no end, because you know Quinn is only hanging with Santana because she thinks it will rattle you.

And so far, as much as you struggle against the feelings, it _has_. You find yourself watching them, glaring over the knot of ropes in your hand to find them laughing at the Spears station, to find Finn adjusting Santana's grip on a sword at the Swords station. You wouldn't be surprised if your mouth was hanging open, because you're shocked that Santana turned your help down but accepted Quinn's. It leaves you questioning your inferiority, wondering if you're good enough. For the first time, you start to doubt the certainty of your win.

You shake your head. You _can't_ have those thoughts, not now. You're just days out from the Games. You competed against handfuls of other kids to be here- and _won_. You're the best your District has to offer, and if anyone is going to win, it's going to be you. Santana hanging with Quinn- even allying with Quinn- doesn't change anything.

Still, you wonder what _Santana's_ motive is. She _has_ to know Quinn plans to kill her at the soonest opportunity, right? Why would she be friendly with them?

Why are you spending so much time wondering what she's doing, when there's 19 other tributes you haven't even bothered to study yet?

You sigh, quickly growing frustrated with the ropes in your hands that you are failing to untangle. You look around the room and try to study the other tributes, but nothing useful about them sticks in your mind. You just keep seeing Santana laughing with Quinn and Finn, and the smug smirk on Quinn's face when she catches you staring.

You rub your eyes and stand abruptly. You can't do this anymore, it's affecting you too much. You bow to the station Trainer, thank him, and then make your way out of the Training Center. Training isn't mandatory, anyway, and you're just growing frustrated. You know you shouldn't let Quinn and Finn crack you like they have, but this has turned into a lot more manipulation than you were prepared for.

When you reach your floor, you tell Sugar, who looks shocked to see you, that you're feeling tired and to send your dinner up to your room.

She shrugs and waves you up to bed, and you disappear upstairs.

* * *

You take a long, hot shower, feeling a lot more relaxed once you get out. You eat your dinner alone in silence, enjoying the time to clear your thoughts, without Quinn's politics or Jesse's arrogance. A glance at the clock reveals how late it is, so it's probably safe for you to go downstairs without running into anybody.

As you reach the dining room, it occurs to you that you never did get to see the garden on the roof, so you slip your boots on at the door, and take the elevator back up. The quiet calms you, and all your problems start to seem as far away as the flickering lights still scattered far below on the street as you reach the top floor and exit out into the chill of the night.

You make your way over to the garden and slowly stroll through, looking at all the multicolored flowers. You don't know the names of any of them- there isn't much wildlife in your area of District 2- but something about the colors and shapes soothes something inside you. You're finally able to let your guard down for the first time since…

Well, you can't really remember. You've been training for the Hunger Games since you were fifteen, and ever since you enrolled in the Academy, you've had to constantly keep your guard up, to keep your control- around your instructors, around your peers, around your _father_-

It's exhausting. You can't wait to win the Hunger Games so you can go live in the Victor's Village, maybe find a talent, and settle down. Maybe meet someone you can be yourself around, someone you don't have to keep your guard up for. You smile softly to yourself. _That_ would certainly be nice.

You continue to walk down the aisles of plants until something- or _someone_- catches your eye, and you feel your stomach sinking with realization.

It's Santana. _Again_.

You decide to be extra quiet to hopefully slip past her without her noticing, but as you move, you feel the fury from earlier building in you. Fury and _concern,_ and more fury _because_ of your concern. You hate that you care about Santana, but you try and tell yourself that's _not_ what it is; you'd want someone to tell you if someone was using you, wouldn't you? You swallow. It's not really your place- _but it is_. If it wasn't for you, Quinn probably would've never followed Santana all day. You have no way of knowing that for sure, but Quinn showed zero interest in Santana _before,_ so-

You pause, spinning to look at Santana, who's leaning back on her elbows against the rail, smirking. "Did Quinn ask you to be allies?" you demand, and again, you wonder why you don't stop and think about your words before you say them. But she'd already spotted you, so it's not like you can sneak out, anyways.

Her smirk grows wider as she answers, "Uh-huh."

"They're using you," you tell her, feeling angry and powerless. You wish- you don't know what you wish. You're feeling all kinds of conflicting emotions, and it's completely erased the calm feeling you had moments ago with the flowers.

Santana shrugs cockily in response to your statement. "So?"

"You're going to get yourself _killed_."

She laughs. Loud, amused. It makes your anger spike higher. "Are you _kidding_ me right now with this bullshit?" She snaps her fingers at you in quick succession, making you feel stupid. She continues, "_Open your eyes_, Brittany," and the sound of your name from her lips takes you off guard; you had no idea she even knew who you were, but- "I'm going to die _either way_. At least if I ally with them, I stand a better chance of making it past _Day One_."

"And so you'll let them kill you?" you ask angrily. "Because that's _exactly_ what's going to happen!"

"Aw, are you mad you don't get to do it yourself?" she sneers. "What other option do I have? I don't exactly have a line of people waiting to ally with me. Who else is going to do it? Jesse? _You_?"

You shake your head quickly. That's _not_ what this is about, but-

"_Exactly_. I'll take my chances. So why don't you stay the fuck out of my business, okay?" she snaps, crossing her arms. "You don't fucking care about _me_. You only care about _winning_, and now I just went and made Team Quinn one person stronger."

You glare at her, fuming in silence. You can't believe how naïve she's being- how _spiteful_ she's being. You wonder again what her motive is; she _must_ think she can outsmart Quinn, too, but you've witnessed firsthand that Quinn doesn't seem like she has all of her ducks in order. You're still wondering how you're going to outsmart her, yourself. But you're much more capable, physically, than Santana is.

But why do you even care?

You don't.

_You don't._

You clench your jaw, staring at the arrogant smirk on Santana's face, at the way her lips turn up, so confident and cocky, and you want to both smack it off her face and kiss it away at the same time.

The realization hits you suddenly and sends your mind reeling, and you narrow your eyes, shaking your head to clear it. That _can't_ be it. But the longer you stare at her face, at her plump lips, at her delicate neck and endless brown eyes and soft-looking dark hair, you feel your heart pounding with anger and something else, and despite the cool night air, you're becoming overheated. You need to leave.

"_Fine_," you mutter, and this time, you're the one who exits.

When you make it to your bed, you lie in it glaring at the wall, unable to fall asleep, and toss and turn with your thoughts all night.

* * *

The final day of Training, you're grumpy and sullen. You're again greeted with the sight of Santana hanging out with Quinn and Finn, and at lunch, the three of them are joined by the small blonde girl from District 4 and the tall boy with the weird hairstyle from District 11.

You watch Santana, watch her lips move. You wonder what they taste like, which concerns you- you're either developing a crush, or just looking to satiate your needs. Either is troubling, but since you made your startling realization last night, it's all you can think about.

Her lips- will they feel as soft as they look? Or will they be even softer?

You're not used to wanting something and not getting it, but you're still not even sure what you want from her. You don't want to be her ally. You don't want to be her _friend_, not really. You want more than that.

You want _her_.

You want her naked and writhing beneath you; you want to feel how soft she is _inside_; you want to see what her face looks like when she comes, while you fuck her senseless, but you want more than her body.

For the first time ever, you want to _know_ someone, and it scares you more than the impending fight you'll be involved in in a few short days. You know you'll win that; but her? She will die, and you'll never get to know who she is.

The thought saddens you as you pick at your stew. You've developed some kind of connection with Santana, with the worst timing ever. You're drawn to someone you can't possibly be with, someone you'll more than likely end up killing, and just as you did with Marley, you hope someone else kills her.

You sit, silent and alone with your troubling thoughts, as Santana and the others laugh and joke, and then Finn's called out of lunch for his private session with the Gamemakers. Soon after, Quinn is called, and then Jesse, and then, you're in the private room with fifteen minutes on the clock and a group of people in robes staring down at you.

You're not sure how to demonstrate your special skill, not without a person trying to attack you, so you throw around some weapons. Then, you build a hammock. You're extremely pleased with how it turns out. In fact, once it's built, you recline in it, spending the rest of your time relaxing there. You hope the Gamemakers are as impressed as you are with what you've learned in Training, but you're not too concerned with your score. You know how strong you are, and so does your District. And since you're bent on not having allies, you're okay with having a low score. You don't want to make yourself a target.

After all, April's advice was to mess with the other tributes; no better way to do that than get a low score, right?

When your fifteen minutes are up, you reluctantly leave your impressive hammock and go back to your room to wait. Eventually you make your way downstairs to watch television, listening to Jesse brag to Sugar, April, and Hank about how great he did in his private session, and try not to roll your eyes. Dinner comes, and most of the other mentors show up, giving Jesse an excuse to tell the story of how great he was all over again. You struggle to keep down your food, laughing at the exasperated, unamused facial expressions Sugar shoots you across the table.

After dinner, everyone crowds around the television to wait for the Training Scores to be announced. You're not surprised when Finn and Quinn score a 10 and 11, or even that Jesse scores an 11. You are surprised, however, when you score a 9. You thought for sure you'd get lower, but the Gamemakers had been watching you during your entire 3-Day Training. You wonder what they could've seen that would give them the impression that you have skills that lie beyond amazing hammock-making, but you're not worried. You give Jesse a sly _congratulations _and let him feel superior as he tells you,_ better luck next time _in the most condescending voice imaginable.

Because you know he knows there won't _be_ a next time.

_At least_, you think_, not for him. _

Most of the other tributes got decent 7s and 8s, with the exception of the girl tributes from Districts 3 and 8, who landed a measly 4. You don't feel sorry for them; they could be playing a lower score, like you. You wait anxiously for Santana's score, and you're surprised when you spot her 9. She scored the _same as you_. You wonder what skill she has that gave her such an above-average score, and suddenly, you feel like perhaps you severely underestimated her. She's not the frail, helpless girl she's been making herself out to be.

You start analyzing every interaction you've ever had with her. Was she bluffing? Was she pretending to be weak, pretending she was going to die in the initial bloodbath? Or did Quinn really help her improve so much in just one day?

All the thinking makes your head hurt again, and you decide to retire early. You get up, saying your goodnights just in time to see the tall boy from District 11 and Quinn's latest ally, Noah- score an 11. You're not surprised. He's physically impressive, and if Finn, oaf that he is, scored a _10…_

You shake your head and climb the stairs to your room, changing into your pajamas. Tomorrow you have a meeting with Sugar and then a meeting with April, to prepare for your Interview the next day. But judging by your sessions with April so far, you have a feeling it's going to be mostly a free day for you.

You crawl into bed and wait, but sleep doesn't come. Your mind won't shut off. You keep thinking about Santana, and turning over every conversation you've had with her. You feel a little betrayed, and you can't understand why. You helped her with Archery in Training, but she brushed you off. Then she turned around and allied with Quinn. You don't understand what any of it means.

Was this her plan all along? Get noticed by the other volunteer tributes and ally up with them, and then somehow use her skill to win the Games? What even _is_ her skill?

You roll over, sighing, frustrated. You _hate_ the politics. You wish the Games were more straight-forward, but you remind yourself that it's all worth it.

It will all be worth it when you _win_.

* * *

After an hour of lying in bed unable to sleep, you feel something tugging at you, and you can't help yourself. You don't bother to change out of your pajama pants, and instead just slip your boots on and make your way up to the elevator. It's a lot chillier than it was the night before; either that, or you're so nervous, you're shivering. You don't know what to say to Santana- because surely she'll be there, on the roof, won't she? She's been there the last two nights. You don't know why you're nervous. You don't even know why you're going to meet her.

When you get to the roof, you wonder why your chest feels so tight. You look around, finding the space empty, with the only noise coming from the parties down below on the street. Your stomach sinks; you'd hoped Santana would be here, and that you'd get to apologize or something, _something_.

She's _not_ here, though, and once you realize that what you're feeling is _disappointment_, you also realize how utterly fucked you are.

* * *

**Ahhh! We're almost there! Next chapter will be the Interview and, idk, maybe a little… hmmm… ;)**

**Anyways, review if you feel like it! If not, well, GET OUT! **

**Hahah I'm just kidding. I'll see you next time, I'm sure! :D**

**BRITTANA FOREVER! **


	5. Heart

**A/N:** Hi everyone; sorry this took so long. Feels have been killing me, you don't even know!

Okay, well, actually, you do know. I mean, you're in the fandom, right?

OH MY GOD TOMORROW. ALL OUR DREAMS ARE COMING TRUE AND JUST ANFMSKSDWAM I'M NOT OKAY.

Anyways, thanks to everyone who followed, favorited, read, reviewed, ignored, and whatever'd this story. I appreciate you little sweethearts! :D

I broke this chapter up into two because, uh, as usual, it got too long. But I'm hoping, if I survive 100, to have the next chapter, which is mostly written, up on Wednesday or Thursday...

Thanks as always to Lighthouse (**NegativeSpaces**) and Dakota (**Perfectly Censored**) for listening to me whine. :D

Okay, I'll shut up now.

* * *

"Britt, I'm gonna level with you," Sugar tells you casually as she reclines in an overstuffed chair, sipping a blended beverage you're sure is 90% alcohol and feeding herself some grapes. You wait patiently for her to finish her sentence, but she pops some more grapes into her mouth.

You try not to sigh.

Today is supposed to be the day you prepare to present yourself in your Interview tomorrow, which is a huge deal. The Tribute Parade was the first look that the Capitol- and the entire nation of Panem- had of you and the other tributes. But tomorrow, they'll actually get to _know_ you, and it's important that you make a good impression to win over sponsors. You're not convinced you'll need them, but you know that once you win the Games, you'll want everyone in the Capitol to adore you, so making a good impression beforehand can't hurt.

Sugar takes another long sip of her eccentrically-colored beverage and jiggles it at you. "Are you sure you don't want one?"

You shake your head. You're still in your pajamas. You aren't planning on going anywhere- especially not the roof. You're trying hard to focus on training for your impending Interview, but you can't help feeling like something is bugging you, like something is missing. You can't determine what that nagging feeling is, but you know it's not good.

The fact that Sugar is not taking any of this training seriously doesn't exactly help you, either.

"Look, Britt," she starts again with a sigh. She looks at you seriously for a moment, before a grin splits her face and she breaks out into a maniacal giggle. "Thank _goodness_ I got this District. You guys always know how to be proper. I literally don't have to do anything with you."

"What?" you wonder.

"I'm supposed to be teaching you how to walk in heels, how to sit like a lady, how to speak, you know- but you've already been trained in manners."

You _have_, but- "There are tributes that _haven't_?"

Sugar nods pityingly, dabbing at her left eye. You can't tell if she's really crying or just being dramatic. Or possibly trying to fish out some debris that had regrettably landed in her eye. "Yes. In the _lesser_ Districts. They're very uncivilized people. They don't have time to fuss about manners- they're far too busy being _barbarians_."

You think about Sugar's words for a moment. You wonder if Santana is with her mentor right now, learning how to walk in heels for the first time. The thought of her in heels does something to you, and instantly, you imagine how she'll look for her Interview. It makes you feel a little sick; you shouldn't be thinking about her, especially in that sort of capacity. _She's_ from one of those lesser Districts. _She's_ one of those uncivilized people.

And she's going to die, anyway.

But even if she wasn't, there's no way you could ever be anything to her. Mating with women isn't looked down upon in your District- not like it apparently is in District 9- but holding any sympathy for the lesser Districts _is_. You're sure your family would disown you for such a thing- and especially your _father_. He'd be so angry-

"Enjoy some free hours of relaxation until you have to meet with April," Sugar says, snapping you out of your troubling thoughts.

You nod and swallow, feeling like you've just eaten a cup of cobwebs. _Gross_. You climb to your feet and head back up to your room, feeling sullen, but you don't want to think about why.

Your session with April isn't much better, but she's at least slightly more helpful than Sugar is. She talks to you about your strategy, but there's not much to say- you weren't joking when you said you were going to wait for Jesse to kill everyone. You have a strategy, but it's pretty simplistic and doesn't involve as much active killing as Jesse's.

April doesn't give you any concerned looks, though, so you think your strategy is decent. Her sly smile lets you know that she knows you've got more planned than you're letting on, but she doesn't press you. Instead, she asks about your Training Score, and you shrug. You tell her you went in and had fun, and didn't really try- you did what she said. You fucked with them.

She nods, the grin never leaving her face. "And you still managed a nine?" she crows. "That's my girl!"

You smile, but remind yourself that Santana got a nine, too. The smile leaves your face, and April notices immediately. She pokes your shoulder and shakes her head.

"_Don't_," she says. "Don't play that game with yourself. Scores don't mean _anything_. You just do what you need to do. Sometimes, it comes down to who _survives_ the longest. You have no idea what your arena is gonna be until you get out there. Then, it's too late. It all comes down to the arena. And," she gives you a meaningful look, "your sponsors. So in your Interview, _be_ _yourself_. You're confident and shy and charming and sexy, Betsy. So let the people see that. They can't help but like you."

You nod, feeling butterflies in your stomach for more than one reason. Your Interview is tomorrow. The whole nation will be watching.

Santana will be there.

April shows you a few flirty tricks, and you file them away in your brain. You're not trying to seduce anyone, are you?

Immediately, you think of Santana again, and it makes you squeeze your eyes shut in frustration. You really can't keep thinking of her so much. It's becoming distracting. You can't go into the Games feeling like you do now. You've got to figure out some way to stop lusting after her, and-

You pause.

Maybe you _should_ seduce Santana.

At least then, you'd be able to get this undeniable craving for her out of your system. Right? It will go away if you just _satisfy_ it; it works with food. Once you take care of it, you'll be over your slight distraction, Santana can die in the Games, and you can move on with your life being a Victor. _That_ simple.

Except, it's not. How in the world are you going to get Santana to go along with your plan? And when? And where?

You lie in bed after dinner and wrack your brain, and finally you decide you'll just have to go for it.

You'll just have to ask her.

* * *

The next day, you're already awake when Kurt comes to fetch you late in the morning. You have breakfast with him, which is more like an early lunch, internally vibrating with energy. You're excited to be interviewed, but you're more excited to see Santana, and more excited still to find her after, and to possibly-

"You nervous?" Kurt asks, his voice soft as he pours some brown sugar over his steaming porridge.

"Yes," you answer honestly; he doesn't need to know it's not about the_ Interview_. You don't think he'd approve, anyway.

Once breakfast ends, Kurt guides you back to your room. You shower while he gets his tools ready, and once you're blasted dry with currents of warm air from a device in the wall, you step out into the bedroom to find him waiting for you.

"Here," he says, handing you undergarments, and you slip them on quickly as he switches on some weird metal batons he uses for your hair.

It takes a couple of hours for you to get ready. Kurt meticulously does your make-up- it's shimmery and draws out your eyes again- and takes painstaking care with your blonde hair, weaving it into a bun that leaves your face, neck, and shoulders exposed. "For the camera," he tells you as he secures your bun with a shimmering silver tiara. He claims it's for "good luck."

Once you're made up into some prettier version of yourself, you step into your dress, which is also shimmery, and looks like silver bird feathers. The straps are white, but the dress leaves most of your chest and back open. You're not sure what the gossamer fabric is made of, but it's softer than it looks. Kurt has you slip on matching heels, which make your calves flex, and once he's finished, he steps back and smiles.

"One last thing," he adds, reaching into his pocket. He pulls out your father's war tags and slips them carefully over your head. The cold of the metal against your chest is shocking, but as it warms to your skin, you feel the heaviness of the token and what it represents weighing on you. You suddenly feel sick again- your father would definitely not approve of you lusting after a girl from District 9.

You swallow, your throat feeling tight, as Kurt takes your arm and gently escorts you out of the suite and out of the building.

It's nighttime when you step outside and make your way over to the stage, though you can't really tell because of how many spotlights are positioned around. It's so bright it might as well be daytime. The City Circle is packed with people, and you glance out into the square just long enough to notice that the people line the entire street and disappear into the distance. Large televisions are positioned around, giving everyone in the audience a close up of the action, and as you line up between Finn and Jesse in preparation to take the stage, you feel your nerves hit you.

You force yourself not to look for Santana. Instead, you remind yourself to be charming. Funny. _Flirty._ You don't bother to look at Jesse, but you know he looks dashing- his stylist, Sebastian, is good at what he does. You remind yourself that Kurt is, too, and that you look just as good as Jesse probably does, probably better because it's you.

You wait patiently until everyone is lined up, and then at your cue, you and the other tributes march single-file onto the stage and take your seats, which are lined up in a half-circle surrounding the two comfy chairs in the center of the stage. You sit with Finn on your right and Jesse on your left, and it becomes harder for you not to turn your head to find Santana; she's close, and the curve of the chairs puts her in your line of sight without you having to crane your neck.

Still, you resist, and force a smile instead, feeling the weight of your father's tags as a constant reminder of why you're here.

When the familiar theme music begins to play, everyone's favorite television host, Rachel Berry, dances her way onto the stage to the sound of thundering applause. She's been a host for the last 24 years, and she's extremely charismatic with a certain flair for theatrics. You can tell she loves the camera, and she looks the same as she has for as long as you can remember. She changes her look every year, of course, to go with some weird theme that must be only known to her- this year she's in a patterned skirt and matching top with a huge, gaudy bow on the front of it. Her hair is adorned with a sparkling headband, and her makeup is dramatic to match the colors in her skirt, all reds and blues and oranges. It's bizarre, but the crowd loves her, so you clap dutifully and cheer, trying not to roll your eyes as she blows kisses to the audience.

Once the crowd settles down, Rachel begins the interviews. Quinn is first, and when her name is called, she makes her way to center stage. She's dressed in pink and heels taller than yours, and she twirls a little, waving to the crowd and acting the picture of pure innocence.

_Give me a break._

You sit on stage beside Finn and feel awkward. Quinn is beautiful and elegant, a living example of grace, all flawless skin and smooth voice, and you feel utterly pale by comparison. Rachel banters with her, of course; asking about why she volunteered, about her family, about her strategy, and Quinn sounds like she's participating in a pageant when she talks about the opportunity to do something meaningful for her District. When her three minutes are up, she curtsies and gives another jaunty wave to the crowd, coquettish yet wholesome, before traipsing back to her seat, and the crowd roars in approval.

"Quinn Fabray, everybody!" Rachel offers, and you're beginning to worry a little. How can you compete with the perfection of Quinn?

Even Finn, oaf that he is, seems charming as he takes his place across from Rachel and answers her questions. He also talks about volunteering in District 1, and to your surprise, is very humble about his score when asked. You think you can guess Jesse's angle, but what about everyone else?

You subtly scan the crescent of people, sizing them up. Then, without meaning to (who are you kidding? You totally meant to) you glance at Santana and find her dressed in deep crimson red, stunning and perfect; your heart skips a beat.

And then before you realize it, Finn's taking his place beside you again and you're rising to go sit across from Rachel. You move confidently but not cockily as you make your way to the chair, and you sit the way you've been trained, steeling yourself. If Quinn is the darling of the Capitol, you'll be the _poster girl_ for Panem- your father's tags are warm against your chest.

"So. _Brittany_," Rachel starts, and the way she smacks her hands on her knees reminds you of a young schoolgirl about to start gossiping.

"Rachel," you deadpan back, and the crowd laughs. You're a little surprised- did you make a joke?

Rachel gives you a sly smile as if to say _I see you making jokes_, _silly _and asks you, "You volunteered, as well- tell us about that?"

You blink at her. "Well, Sugar called my name…" you start, and Rachel laughs loudly as if you said the most hilarious thing in the world. The crowd laughs with her, and you're even more confused.

"You're killing me, Brittany!" Rachel giggles.

"Are you in the Games, too?" you wonder.

The audience roars some more, and you can feel the stares of the other tributes burning holes in you for being so well-liked, even though you're pretty sure you haven't exactly done anything, at all.

Once the laughter dies down a bit, Rachel wipes her eye, and you wonder if she's actually crying or if she did it for dramatic effect, just like Sugar. Does _everyone_ in the Capitol do that? "Oh, my," she sighs, grinning widely. "So, Brittany, tell us about that nine you got, huh?" She nudges you with her elbow a little, as if trying to get you to confess a deep, dark secret, then adds, "What's your _strategy?"_

You open your mouth, unsure what to say. But then Rachel interrupts.

"Come on, Brittany, _do_ tell us."

"It's-"

"Brittany, please, don't leave us hanging! Tell us!" Rachel says, falling dramatically against her chair as if mortally wounded.

"Well, I'm _trying_," you point out, and between Rachel and you, the audience goes nuts. You kind of wonder if you're in a dream, because everything feels so surreal. Is this real life? What is going on?

"Okay, Brittany, one last question," Rachel says, her tone changing drastically to something serious. You're not even sure you've answered any questions so far. It makes your head spin, but you focus hard on her.

"Whew," you say, relieved, and Rachel smiles a little as the crowd giggles.

"Your father is a retired Peacekeeper," Rachel says. She points to your neck. "And those tags are his?"

You reach up, gingerly, and touch the metal hanging from your neck, feeling protective. You swallow. "Yes."

"And do you have anything to say to him, watching right now?"

You find the camera, offering it a small smile, one that just barely tugs at your lips. You push down the cold fear that fills up your stomach as you think about your feelings, Santana, and how you've handled yourself so far. It's not exactly the best you could do, but you can't help the way you feel, and you haven't lost yet. You'll prove yourself out in the arena, once you get these disturbing desires out of your system.

"I won't let you down," you say, so quiet Rachel almost doesn't hear it. Thankfully, she doesn't make you repeat it- maybe she decided that keeping some mystery would work better to heighten the drama. You don't know and you don't care.

"Thank you, Brittany," Rachel tells you, and then you're released to your seat.

Applause booms as you find your chair, and then Jesse is called, and as you expected, he's arrogant and charming, boasting about his score and basically threatening the other tributes. You don't think it's wise to make himself a target, but he's so overly-confident, he probably thinks he can handle anyone who comes after him.

You hope he gets ironically eliminated on the first day.

The rest of the tributes go through their Interviews. None of them really stick out. The tributes from 4- Sam and Kitty- seem like they might be a threat, only because you know they are both from a wealthier district and also volunteered, but as for the rest, no one catches your interest except for Marley, who's withdrawn and very shy. You try not to feel sympathy for her, but somehow it creeps in, and again you hope you're not the one who has to kill her. It's the only thought you consistently have about the girl.

You're so consumed in your thoughts, clapping automatically after each tribute, that you almost miss when Rachel calls, _Santana Lopez_.

Rachel asks her the same basic questions she asks you, and Santana cunningly avoids answering the questions, skillfully turning them around on Rachel without coming across as overtly mean. It makes you grin. She's snarky and funny, and the audience loves her as much as any other tribute, despite her not divulging any information about herself. It frustrates you, because you're just as hungry for information about her as the audience is, but you decide that it's probably best you don't know.

You listen to her raspy, smoky voice answer the questions, your eyes surreptitiously tracing her frame, greedily using the excuse of her being center stage to drink her in. She's breathtaking, and you watch her lips move, feeling that familiar heat low in your stomach again as you imagine what they taste like. It only intensifies as you realize you might actually find out.

"Santana, I see your necklace is a bird," Rachel points out cheerily.

"A _mockingbird_," Santana corrects, and though she sounds polite, you can tell she's irritated, though you don't know how you can read her so well all of a sudden. You haven't spent that much time with her, and you're still so confused about- well, everything about her.

"A _mockingbird_ then," Rachel says, patronizingly, and you can practically see Santana's brown eyes ignite. "It's very pretty. Does it mean anything special?"

"My mother gave it to me, before she died," Santana says easily. Rachel dramatically covers her mouth, and the audience falls silent; your own heart twinges with slight pity, as well, but Santana continues lightly, "because I have a talent for singing."

"Singing!" Rachel exclaims, jumping at the chance to change the uncomfortable subject. "Would you sing for us?"

Santana nods briefly, much to the crowd's delight, and when she opens her mouth to start singing, you forget how to breathe. The entire world drops away, leaving you sitting in your chair. You feel as if a spell has fallen over you, and your heart pounds madly.

Santana's voice is _gorgeous_.

You're not even sure you're hearing words, you're so caught up in the tone and the notes and the way it all sounds, wrapped in her velvet voice. You don't recognize the song, but you don't care. You're sure you've never heard something so wonderful in your entire life, and you begin to wonder if you're worrying about the wrong tributes. You'd stressed about how perfect Quinn is, but _Santana-_

Her voice pains you- because you were so certain, up until now, that Santana is a heartless bitch, that she deserves to die in these Games.

But how can an awful person sound so perfect?

How can someone who deserves to suffer and die move you the way that she does?

You suppose it's not impossible, but the way her brown eyes melt and go soft, and the way she wrings her hands in her lap, and the way her eyebrow furrows a little, all of it makes your stomach clench tighter and tighter, and you think it's finally happened- your worst fear.

Santana has become more than _nothing_ to you.

* * *

You sit through the rest of the Interviews, still spellbound by Santana's performance, and then the show ends, and you're released. You linger back, slipping into the shadows. April's already left to go drinking with the other mentors, and Sugar's preoccupied with Jesse- you can hear her scolding him for something he must've done during the Interview.

You find Santana standing with her mentor- the tall, blonde woman again. You know you have to get back to your room for dinner, a rewatch of the Interviews, and to say goodbye to April and Sugar. Kurt will be the only one escorting you to the arena, and the Games start in the morning.

But you have to see Santana before then- _before_ the Games. You _have_ to.

You lurk by the elevator, waiting and hoping you don't come off as too creepy. When Santana moves slowly past you, seemingly lost in her own thoughts, you make your move. You grab her hand, and she turns, pinning you with a murderous glare; you lean forward, your lips brushing her ear, the sweet smell of her hair assaulting you and making the heat in your stomach burn hotter.

She doesn't move away as you find your voice enough to whisper, "Meet me on the roof tonight."

Then you release her and slip back away; you don't miss the way her eyes darken at your words.

* * *

**Okaaay so the next chapter's probably gonna be all sex, just warning you right now. Well, that's a lie- it'll be like 97% sex. I mean, that IS why you are all here, right?**

**-crickets-**

**_Is_ anyone here?**

**LMAO I'm just kidding. Review if you feel like it, but if not, well, then whatever, I'll just go cry or something, nbd.**

**See you next time, pals! **


	6. Surrender

**A/N: **Thanks everyone who reviewed! I'm currently still drowning in Brittana feels- OMG THAT KISS THO- but I took some time out to write this for ya'll.

Special thanks to Cusper (**playwithmagic**, aka **5150** on tumblr) for helping with this chapter. You're the best, mate! :D

_Quick side note:_ The dress Brittany wore in her interview is the same dress she wore in **4.11** to the Sadie Hawkins dance. She looked fucking ~magnificent in that thing, even though I hated the entire context of the episode.

Okay, okay, I'm shutting up!

* * *

You're still shaking- with nerves and something else- when you make it back upstairs to the suite. Everyone is already gathered around the dinner table, raucously laughing and carrying on. The mentors are drunk, Jesse's bragging, and you really didn't expect anything else.

"Betsy!" April shrieks at you when she spots you. "C'mere! Celebrate with us!" She waves you over, and you force a smile as you move closer. You're still wearing the silver dress you wore for your Interview, and you'd feel a lot more comfortable if you could go change first, but you suppose the time you could've spent changing- the time Jesse obviously used to do so- was spent with Santana; you don't regret it.

Reluctantly, you move to sit at the table. Jesse has returned to boasting about himself- big surprise- and April pats you on the forearm.

"You did great," she whispers, though because she's drunk, it's the loudest whisper you've ever heard, and it makes you genuinely smile a little. You can't be mad at April. She _has_ actually tried to help you in her own way, so you can't fault her for that.

You load up your plate with dinner and begin eating, answering the questions that are directed at you, but mostly you remain quiet and just observe the people around you, lost in your thoughts and anticipation. After you finish eating, you relocate out to the sitting room to watch the replay of the Interviews along with everyone else. It's like watching them for the first time, because you can actually see the front of the tributes instead of just the side from where you were in your seat on stage. You watch yourself carefully, pleased that you look far more confident than you felt. During your Interview, you try and find Santana, but the angle cuts her off, so you're forced to watch yourself interact with Rachel, disappointed that you don't get to watch Santana's reactions to your answers. Sugar, Kurt, Sebastian and the mentors all laugh at your unintentional jokes, and you smile shyly, happy that your Interview went far better than you expected.

Jesse's up next and he comments on all of the- in _his_ opinon- _great things_ that are happening on the screen as he talks- and he _continues_ talking through the Interviews of the District 3 and 4 tributes. You steal a glance at Sugar to find her rolling her eyes exasperatedly, and then you look at April to find her completely zoned out, downing her glass of liquor. You giggle behind your hand and refocus your attention back to the television, eager for the tributes from Districts 7 and 8 to hurry up so you can watch Santana's Interview.

When Santana finally takes the stage and sings, you're captivated all over again. This time you can see her full face, and your heart pounds at how stunning she is, at how gorgeous she sounds. You're completely enamored by her, even when she moves to find her seat again. You hear her voice in your head over and over, see the hard edge in her brown eyes. You remember the way her hand felt earlier when you grabbed it outside the Training Center.

And then it finally sinks in.

The Games are _tomorrow_.

You're suddenly hit with a wave of slight panic, and your stomach tenses. You swallow repeatedly, feeling your heart pound. You're not nervous about the Games; you've prepared for those for years, and you're ready.

But what you haven't prepared yourself for is watching Santana die. You struggle to calm your racing heart, to slow your pulse back down, and when April offers you a drink again, you accept it, taking a huge gulp of the sweet, blue-tinged liquid; it burns your throat despite its fruity taste. Your stomach continues to flutter as you wonder, over and over, if Santana will meet you on the roof like you requested.

What if she doesn't? She has no reason to, and you can't very well go looking for her on the ninth floor. You don't think you can handle not seeing Santana again before the arena, but you can feel the numbing effects of the alcohol starting to calm you down, and you take a few slow, deep breaths, reassuring yourself that she will be there. She has to be.

After the Interviews are over, you say goodbye to April and Sugar. The Games start at ten the next morning; Kurt will be your escort to the hovercraft that will take you to the arena, but April and Sugar you won't see again until after you win the Games. You give Sugar a hug, and she tells you to make sure you follow your strategy, but doesn't seem too choked up about saying goodbye. She's used to winning, you suppose. Her confidence eases your worry.

When you move to give April a hug, she winks at you. "We'll see you on your Victory Tour, Betsy."

You smile, tell everyone good night, and head up to your room to change.

* * *

When you're sure that everyone's retired to bed, you sneak out. You're in your pajamas again- soft flannel pants and v-neck t-shirt- but you don't care. You slip onto the elevator and take it up to the roof, opening and closing your hands at your sides and shivering with anticipation. When you reach the roof, you take a deep breath and climb the stairs, then open the door, stepping out into the darkness.

It's warm, and you can hear the parties still carrying on in the streets below the building as you scan the roof.

It's empty.

You try to ignore the sinking feeling that takes over you as you move closer to the edge. Maybe she's just not here yet. Maybe she's not even coming, but- you can't leave just yet. You decide to wait for a bit, and wander back over to the garden- to the flowers. Again, the colors and softness make you feel peaceful, and you zone out for a while as you stare at them. You zone out so much that it startles you when you hear footsteps.

Your heart skips a beat as you turn to find Santana, standing in the center of the roof, staring hard at you with an unreadable expression. You stare back, mesmerized for long moments, until she breaks the silence.

"So what do you want? You wanna _kill_ me? Huh? You couldn't wait until tomorrow?" Her voice is harsh and accusing and it makes you cringe inside, but you ignore her tone.

"I don't _want_ to kill you," you tell her honestly.

"But you _will_," she points out, narrowing her eyes.

You shrug helplessly. You've tried not to think about what you'll do when the time comes, if you run into her in the arena. "I was kind of hoping someone _else_ would," you admit. "Or maybe you'd die from hunger, or-"

"Fantastic," she hisses, balling her hands into fists and advancing on you. Your pulse quickens- not in fear, not from the idea that she could hurt you (you know she can't) but from the idea of her being _closer_. "So why wait then? Why not just take care of it now?" she demands.

"I told you," you murmur, "I don't want to kill you."

"Then what do you want?" You can hear her impatience, and it makes you nervous. You don't want to blow this chance- you _can't._ You also don't know how to word your request without sounding too vulgar, but-

"I want to fuck you."

"_Excuse me_?"

You shrug again, feeling your cheeks warm up. Maybe this wasn't the best idea. Maybe you should've been less forward about it. But you've already blurted out the words- the implication of them hangs in the air awkwardly, making the tension between you and Santana spike even higher. You're not sure you can take anymore, so you decide to just put yourself out there.

"Look, I just thought-" you start, keeping your voice level and passive. You don't want her to get the wrong idea. This is just about sex, it's just about the physicality of it, the mechanics. It has _nothing_ to do with feelings. "We have some weird chemistry; I know you feel it, too. And one of us- or maybe _both_ of us- is definitely going to die tomorrow. So I thought- well, you're hot, and _I'm_ hot, and-"

"I can't believe this," she whispers, appalled. You don't know if she's appalled that you're brazen enough to solicit her for sex, of if she's shocked that you brought up both of you possibly dying, or both.

You lick your lips. You find her eyes. Her dark, dark brown eyes. You feel something pulling you, something magnetic trying to force you closer, though you resist; it takes everything in you. The result has your body tensing, your muscles being strung taut like a bowstring. You want to move closer, but-

"Well?" You ask, low and in your throat. Each second you wait for her to decide is a new kind of agony.

You watch her throat move as she swallows thickly. Her eyes are glassy. You wonder if maybe she's realizing _this is it-_ that she's going to die, that this is her last chance to _be_ with someone. You wonder if she's mourning all the chances she'll never have to be with other someones. You can practically feel the regret and longing and sadness radiating from her. Her lips tremble. Then, the barest whisper reaches your ears.

"Kiss me."

You almost can't believe her response. In fact, if it wasn't for the way she's looking at you- _into_ you- you wouldn't. You finally release the restraint on your body and allow yourself to move closer, your legs feeling like lead. She shifts with you, like a magnet, or a mirror image, and you wonder if she did it automatically or intentionally to complement you, and the thought makes your heart ache a little as you silently mourn what might have been, if not for-

You shove the thoughts away as you reach up to cup her jaw and tug her into a slow, sweet kiss. When your lips touch, you feel a hard throb of arousal hit you straight between your legs, a thrill shooting up your spine and making the hair on the back of your neck tingle. Your heart gives another sad pang- another mourning, this time for the powerful physical attraction you feel to her- and you will yourself to focus on the moment as your heartbeat pounds and you kiss her harder.

You explore her lips slowly, letting her plump bottom one slip between both of yours, and her fingers trace along your jaw, the fingers of her other hand just barely grazing your stomach, stoking your fire higher, making you tremble.

It's not enough.

Your kisses turn passionate; you suck on her lip. She opens her mouth to you and swipes her tongue against yours. Your teeth get involved. The hand at your stomach grips a fistful of your shirt, keeping you close, but a safe distance away at the same time. You long to be even closer, to feel her pressed up against you, and you slide your hand to the back of her neck, moaning as her free hand tangles in your hair roughly. You curl your tongue around hers and invade her mouth, your body shaking harder as burning want travels through you. You pant against her lips, struggling to hold yourself back, but the feelings that spread through your body are so unfamiliar and so _addicting._

When she finally releases the fistful of your shirt she'd been clutching and her hand slides up your chest to curl around the back of your neck, to tug you closer, you let the distance between your bodies disappear, wrapping your right arm around her waist and pressing her hips into yours. She gasps in your mouth, pushing into you harder, and the sensation of her supple body against yours makes you feel like you're falling; you give in completely.

You take long moments touching each other; fingers slide along bare arms, up the side of her neck, over the curve of your lower back, and you melt into her. You feel like you're underwater, or like you're drunk. Everything she does, the way she touches you, the way she responds to you, is perfect. She knows exactly what you want, deciphers your nonverbal cues, touches you in ways you never knew you liked to be touched, and when she tilts her head to deepen the kiss even more, you push, walking her backwards to the low brick wall at the edge of the roof.

When you reach it, you lift her up and sit her on the edge, mindful of the fence that sits several feet away, preventing anyone from killing themselves early. The wall is several feet wide, though, and gives you plenty of room- you don't plan on Santana moving more than a few inches away from you, anyways.

As soon as Santana settles on the wall, she wraps her legs around you, never breaking the kiss. The height of it puts her at the same height as you, and you waste no time in pulling her closer, so that her center's pressed against your lower stomach. You can feel the warmth radiating from between her legs, and it makes you rut your own hips forward against her.

The pressure causes her to release a low whimper, and it's the first time you've heard her make such an indecent noise- up until now, she's only made breathy gasps or released shuddering sighs. Your own breath catches in your chest at the _sound_, and you're suddenly compelled to make her respond _louder_.

You long to touch her, more than the careful- though lingering- touches you've shared so far, and your hands, which are cradling her face, slide down the sides of her smooth, delicate neck, over her collarbones, and down to cup her breasts. You both moan as you squeeze them softly, the sound of her verbal response driving you on. You lick at her bottom lip, feeling the weight of her perfect breasts in your hands and the way her nipples harden at your touch, begging for your tongue. Your mouth waters at the thought but you know you can't; somehow, it seems too intimate, too personal to put your mouth on her that way. Besides, you're sure there's a camera on the roof and you don't want to expose her to anyone who might be watching.

Because you're sure _someone_ is watching, and the idea kind of sends a small thrill through you; not because of your audience, but because someone else will bear witness to the two of you together. It makes this more real, more valid. You want to remember her.

You want to remember this.

You continue to massage her chest and stroke your thumbs over her nipples, swallowing her moans and loving the way she shudders and writhes against you, her fingers scratching your scalp, her nails digging into your shoulders. You kiss her harder; you can't wait anymore. You slide your left hand down and around to cradle her lower back, to keep her close as you let your right hand shift even lower, down beneath her pants and underwear, down between her legs. You feel her tense, feel her tremble, and you smile against her lips as your hand reaches its destination.

The second your fingers slip between her legs, she pulls back from your mouth to suck in a sharp gasp. You take the opportunity to let your mouth work its way across her jaw to her neck, and you sink teeth into the sensitive skin, sucking roughly as you slide your fingers through her wetness, then move upwards, over her clit, which is hard and swollen. It makes you groan into her neck, and her grip on you grows tighter. Her forehead hits your shoulder and her hips roll up against your hand as you stroke her a few times, shivering at the sensual, low whimpers of pleasure that escape her mouth and vibrate over your bare collarbones.

Your fingers move lower, and you don't waste time as you push two inside her, as deep as they will go- all the way to your knuckles. You feel her bite your shoulder in response, and it sets off a chain reaction. You don't hold back; you couldn't, even if you tried. You fuck her, hard and fast, and she shakes against you. You close your eyes and breathe her in, trying to memorize every sensation, every sound. You try to memorize how wet she is, how it coats your fingers; how tight she is as you move inside her; the way she clenches around you, drawing you deeper; the way she moans into your neck; the way she smells, and feels, and how warm she is.

You want to remember it all later.

The way your fingers fill her completely.

The way her nails claw, desperate, at your back-

The way you force soft whimpers from her throat when you search deeper, stroke harder, find that spot, _her_ spot, make her toss her head back in ecstasy-

Her thighs tighten around you, she floods your fingers, you watch her as she shakes, as she _comes_, her hips bucking up, riding her release. When she finally crashes back down, you find her face and your heart breaks.

She's crying.

Her body trembles, first from release, then from the force of her sobs. Tears streak down her cheeks, and you're speechless as you pull out of her but don't let her go. Instead, you pull her into a tight hug.

It's not much, but it's all you can offer her. You wish you could give her more. You wish you could change her fate. You wish more than anything that you didn't have to face her in that arena tomorrow.

You wish for her to live.

Your throat constricts, and you feel tears burning your eyes- _tears_. You're confused, your chest aches, but you squeeze Santana tighter to you, squeeze your eyes shut.

She buries her face in your neck, sobbing, and holds you like she'll never let go.

* * *

You're waiting at the elevator when you hear footsteps, and your heartbeat picks up. You'd left Santana on the roof after her crying had calmed down. She'd refused to meet your eyes, and you'd swallowed your apologies, determined not to taint this memory of her. Instead, you'd silently left her, wishing you'd found the right words to say to make the situation better. Wishing you could've _stayed._ Wishing _she_ would've wanted you to stay, but you reminded yourself that it's not about feelings. You didn't want her to get the wrong idea, even though something tells you deep down that it's not the _wrong_ idea at all.

The footsteps make your heart flutter with hope that maybe Santana thinks it's not the wrong idea, either. You wonder if maybe she followed you, if she doesn't want to go yet, or–

You turn to find her brown eyes, which are avoiding yours, and you suddenly feel like an idiot again; she's not following _you_, she just wants to use the elevator. _Stupid._

Disappointment hits you and with it, anger at yourself for getting your hopes up. You wait in awkward silence for a moment, feeling your own embarrassment at your stupid hopes– your stupid _heart_– settling over you, and you curse how long the elevator is taking. It's not like it should've gone anywhere so late. Who else could be using it?

When it finally dings and the doors slide open, you stand aside and let her enter first, feeling your cheeks turning pink despite the fact that you have nothing to be openly embarrassed about except your own lame thoughts and feelings- which are _secret_.

Santana enters the car silently and you follow, moving to the opposite side as she presses the button for her floor, but not yours.

Not yours.

As the elevator starts moving, your thoughts race. Does she not realize you're in the car, too? Are you back to hating each other? Your stomach sinks again. Of _course_ you are. Nothing has changed, except– except–

_Everything_ has changed, and you don't know what to do about it. When the car stops and the door slides open, Santana steps out, pausing. You hold your breath as she turns to look at you, bravely meeting your eyes– finally. It takes your breath away, and your stomach tenses. Her eyes are full of contradictions; pleading, but challenging. Strong, but vulnerable. Questioning, but demanding. They pin you with their endless, dark depths, and you feel frozen in place as you realize what she's wordlessly saying.

You swallow hard. The elevator doors begin to slide closed and you shoot your arm out to stop them, lunging forward from the elevator car, never breaking her gaze.

The elevator closes behind you with a soft click of finality, and your pulse races as you realize the heaviness of the situation. Santana doesn't smile; she just turns to lead you to the door of her suite.

You feel the knot in your stomach growing tighter and tighter.

* * *

It's silent as you make your way into her suite. It's a lot nicer than yours, which is impressive, because yours is already extravagant. You wonder if you're even allowed to be here, if something like this has ever happened before, but there's no rule against it, so probably not. After all, who'd want to sleep with their enemy?

And who would even care if they did?

No one has stopped you yet. You're sure if it was that serious, Peacekeepers would have swarmed over you and arrested you by now. You suppose if it's that big of a deal, they'll make a rule about it next year before the Games.

Your stomach clenches as you think about next year, and how Santana will be-

Again you push those thoughts away. You focus instead on the way Santana's hips move as she leads you up the stairs to her room, and the stickiness between your own legs as you follow. You bite your lip as you reach her room, and she pushes the door open, walking around to the opposite side near the foot of her bed.

When the door closes behind you, she turns to look at you, and her brown eyes are soft and unguarded. You're dying to know what she's thinking, to know what she's feeling- but you don't think you can bear to hear it. Instead, you swallow your nerves, and reach for the hem of your shirt, tugging the garment over your head and revealing your bare chest to Santana's ravenous eyes. You feel her gaze as if it's a solid touch, and you shiver as it roams over your body, lingering on your breasts and your nipples, which are already hard. You ache for her to touch them, but you don't voice your plea.

You don't need to.

Santana moves closer, removing her own shirt in the process, and reaches out to slide her palms over your bare stomach. Her hands are warm, and the sensual way they move over your abs and up to cup your breasts make you suck in air heavily, your breaths growing ragged as she tilts her head up, her mouth opening to kiss you, her tongue immediately finding yours.

You carefully slide your hands up her bare arms, and her breasts brush against yours, the sensation of her hard nipples teasing yours making you shiver. You've never felt softer skin, and you revel in the warmth of her body against you. You run fingers through her dark hair, feeling it slip like silk through your fingers.

When she pulls back, you rest your forehead against hers, panting from the overwhelming emotions running through you. You don't want to deal with any of them. You don't want to even begin to untangle them and figure out what they mean.

You just want to drink Santana in.

You hook your fingers into her pajama pants and tug, and she does the same to you, and then she moves back to sit on the bed. You follow her- like a magnet again- as you step out of your pants and hover over her on the bed, bracing yourself on an arm and letting your mouth find hers again. Her arms wrap around you, and before you can breathe, you're on your back with Santana straddling your lap. You sit up to kiss her, and she wraps her arms around your neck. Her inner thighs are slick where they bracket your hips, and the memory of the way she felt when she came around your fingers less than thirty minutes ago has you reaching back down between her spread legs to feel her again.

She shudders, bucking her hips into your touch, and both her hands cup your face as she kisses you fiercely. You can hear her moaning into your mouth, and you answer her moan with one of your own as your fingers find her even wetter than before. It covers your hand as you quickly slip two fingers back inside her.

You can't believe how warm she feels, how she fits around your fingers so perfectly. It's like you were made for her, like your fingers were always meant to be inside her, fucking her like this. You immediately find that spot again and feel her body respond. She rides your fingers, dropping her hips down sharply as you curl them deep, her breaths turning ragged and heavy.

She whimpers your name, and you splay your free hand on her lower back, which is damp with sweat. You can't help but let it stray lower, to her perfect ass, and you squeeze it, causing her to break the kiss for air. She stays close, her forehead pressed to yours, her hands still cupping your jaw. You watch her face- her eyes are just barely open, staring into yours, and it cuts you open. You feel like she's shattered you, like your soul has been laid open for her. You feel exposed and helpless, even though you're the one fucking her, and it scares you more than anything ever has.

But you can't tear your eyes away.

When she comes, her eyes are still focused on yours, and the deep connection, and the way her orgasm travels through her body while she rhythmically squeezes your fingers buried inside her make you drop your gaze, your heart thundering in your chest.

She kisses you, breathless, and you kiss back. You can't resist her lips. You memorize the way she tastes after she's come all over your fingers, and for a split second you imagine pushing her off your lap and burying your tongue in her.

But no- you've already shared too much of yourself.

She collapses against you, and you lie back onto her bed with her clinging to your side, her leg and arm thrown possessively across your body as she trembles through the aftershocks. You think you should feel awkward- you've never cuddled with anyone before. You've never _wanted_ to. But the gentle pressure of Santana's head on your shoulder, and the length of her pressed into your side, and her steady breaths blowing across your collarbone make you feel warm and content. You've never felt more comfortable, and it scares you again. This is what happiness feels like, but-

Before you can think better of it, you press a kiss to Santana's sweaty forehead, stroking your arm down her side.

She lifts her head from your shoulder, shifting against you. She stares hard at you, her eyes searching yours, and you try to avoid her gaze. It's too intense, too probing, and you already feel like you're laid bare inside.

So instead, you turn onto your side, away from her. You debate getting out of bed and returning to your own suite, but you don't want to leave her yet. You know you should, though- you don't need any more complications. This has already gone too far. This has already moved past the realm of being just physical.

Her hand on your ribs make you turn to look at her over your shoulder, and when that hand trails over your thigh- and then _inwards-_ you jerk.

_No._

You're not ready for her to touch you. You're not ready to give up control. You only wanted to fuck her, not let her fuck you. You've _never_ let anyone have that kind of control over you. You've always been the one to say when and how, always been the one to control your release, when you needed it. But the power trip is just as good as sex. Watching someone come apart and give themselves to you is just as good as getting off, sometimes.

So when her hand grips your thigh more forcefully, you grab her wrist and meet her gaze.

She doesn't let go.

You swallow. Her eyes are determined. You know you could win against her if it came down to fighting, but you don't want this to turn into that, you don't-

"Let me," Santana breathes against your shoulder before her full lips plant a wet kiss there. The warmth against your cool skin makes you shiver.

"Santana," you start, your voice just above a whisper. You tighten your grip on her wrist. Your arm shakes. You've never wanted to give yourself to anyone, but you want to give yourself to Santana. But you're also torn- if _(when)_ Santana dies in the arena, will that part of you die with her? Would it be foolish to let someone have part of you that you'll never get back?

You take a deep, shuddering breath, and wonder if that even _matters._ You wonder if _anything_ matters except this moment- with _her_. You're not used to giving in to anyone, but as you find Santana's eyes again, you realize-

Santana's not used to giving in, either. Her entire existence is under the control of the Capitol. She never asked for this, not like you did. Her life, her death, has been completely taken out of her control, and you wonder if maybe she just wants to have control of _something_, for a change.

You can't deny her this.

You release her wrist, and you think you hear her breathe _thank you_ over your shoulder before her hand slips back and she touches you for the first time, but you can't be sure, because you're too busy holding your breath.

You bury your face into the pillow, muffling your moan of pleasure as she reaches your wetness. You make her work for it, though. She has to push your thighs apart, and she shoves you half onto your stomach, curling around your body, as her fingers tease your entrance for long moments, working you into near-madness.

And then she takes you.

You feel- _relief_ wash over you as her fingers move inside you. For the first time, you don't have to be the one in charge. For the first time, you can surrender yourself and let someone else make decisions. You feel a sort of pressure lifting from your shoulders, and you practically sob with happiness and release against Santana's pillow. You've been fucked before, but you've always been the one in control of the when and how. But now, you're powerless. Santana has all the control, and you're lying almost completely facedown on the bed- helpless.

As if you could resist _her_, anyway.

Her fingers work magic inside you. You've never felt yourself build up so intensely. You clench the sheets beneath you in your fist, struggling to hold onto something as your muscles tense tighter and tighter. You bite her pillow as she fucks you into oblivion, her breath coming in ragged pants against your ear. Her breasts press to your back, and you can feel her sex against your thigh, leaving a trail of wetness.

When she breathes, _let go_ in your ear, you come with a shuddering sob, your hips rolling against her fingers, your body clenching so tightly you feel as if you might snap. Your thighs shake. You feel like your soul rips open, leaving you broken and raw. When the waves of electric pleasure finish breaking through you, you feel silly as you continue to cry against Santana's pillow.

You feel her press reassuring kisses to your back, feel her holding you, and her warm pressure comforts you.

You wonder if this is the last time you'll ever feel safe.

* * *

You lie with Santana until around six. Your wake-up call is at eight and you have to be ready to go by nine, so it's best if no one discovers you. You slip out of bed and dress quietly, feeling numb and too much at the same time. When you turn to Santana, you find her lying in bed, watching you. Her hair is tousled and her brown eyes seem dull, sad. You think how beautiful she looks so early; it makes your heart ache, and you're suddenly hit with the idea that you'll _never have this again_.

You swallow the feeling of devastation that rises in your throat like bile, meeting her gaze. You see too many things in her eyes, and it rattles you. You want to kiss her, but you're scared of what it might mean, you're scared it might confirm anything that you're feeling. You want to tell her_ good luck_, but you don't think it's a very considerate sentiment. You want so many things, but you don't want to destroy the fragility of this moment. You're barely keeping yourself together as it is.

Instead, you turn and make your way out of her suite.

When you get to your room, you curl up with your pillow and sob.

You wish you would've kissed her goodbye.

* * *

By the time your wake-up call comes, you've pieced yourself back together into the cold, numb person you normally portray. It's not hard, considering how hollow you feel. You shower, and then Kurt arrives with simple clothes to wear to the arena. You'll get your arena outfit in the Launch Chamber.

Kurt guides you to the roof, and you try not to think about what you did up there less than twelve hours ago as you board the hovercraft which will take you to the arena. Once onboard, you receive an injection in your forearm- your tracker. It's a small little chip that lets the Capitol determine where you are in the arena, and was introduced two Hunger Games ago, so it's still relatively new. Before the chips, the tributes had to wear special tracking bracelets, which were a hindrance, so you're glad for the new technology. Once the tracker is injected, you rub at the spot. You can just barely feel the tiny bump where it rests beneath your skin.

You eat breakfast with Kurt only, in silence. You're grateful that he senses your mood and doesn't try to talk to you or comment on it. You're not even sure what to say.

The ride to the Launch Room isn't long, and before you know it, you're in the little chamber just below the arena. You feel your nerves and panic starting to take over you again- not for yourself, but for Santana. You take a few deep, steady breaths, and then Kurt beckons you over to where a pile of new clothes, wrapped in plastic, rests.

Kurt opens them and begins to dress you in them. Waterproof hiking boots with sturdy rubber soles that stop mid-calf. A thin jacket with a hood. Pants made of some kind of heavy, slick material that swishes when you walk. It's all easy to move around in, but doesn't tell you much about the arena you're going into.

The last thing Kurt gives you is your father's war tags. He slips them over your head and it's a hard punch of reality- of why you're here. You steel yourself.

Then, you wait.

There's a couch in the corner and you sit on it, bouncing your leg nervously as you feel time passing. You go over your strategy in your mind, and pray that you don't run into Santana in the arena, your stomach turning. You can't be the one to kill her. You _can't._

Finally, a female voice comes over the speaker, informing you that it's time for launch. Kurt smiles reassuringly at you, and you force a brave smile in return.

"Thank you," you tell him, your voice dead even to your own ears. But you want him to know, because you really are grateful for his kindness- even though it's his job.

"You're welcome," he tells you, dusting your shoulder off fondly. "Do well."

You nod, walking over to the glass tube that leads up to the arena. You step onto the cylinder which will lift you up through the tube and into the arena, taking deep, steady breaths. Focusing.

The glass tube seals behind you, shutting you in, and you close your eyes. You're ready. _You're ready_.

You can feel the seconds ticking by, and then, too soon, the cylinder rises, pushing you up through the tube and lifting you through the ground. You're drenched in darkness for long moments before the ceiling opens up, bringing brightness, and then you're there, in the arena.

This is it.

"_Ladies and Gentleman, Let the 25th Hunger Games begin_!"

* * *

**AHHHH!**

**Review if you feel like it, peeps!**

**See you soon! **


	7. Blood

**A/N:** Wow, guys! Totally didn't expect such a huge response to last chapter, but, I'm glad you all enjoyed it! :) Thanks so much for reading and for reviewing! Ya'll are the best!

Wanted to have this up for you last night, but, seriously, the anticipation and feels are killing me! BRITTANA FOREVER!

Special special ultra-special thanks to Lighthouse (**NegativeSpaces**) for helping me with ~science. Seriously, bb is brilliant. Did you guys finish **Battlesong**?! I NEED YOU TO GO DO THAT.

Just a reminder that there is **violence and death** in this chapter. Proceed with caution!

* * *

Sixty seconds. That's how long you have until the gong sounds, which will release you from the small cylindrical platform you're standing on.

It's more than enough time for you to size up the situation.

First, you look around, taking in your location. You and the other tributes are arranged in a circular pattern, with the Cornucopia- a giant metal horn containing supplies and an arsenal of weapons- positioned in the center on a very unstable-looking wooden platform.

Surrounding it is murky green water, slimy trees, and rotting logs. _Swamp_. Oily vines drip from the branches of the trees, and despite the shade the overhead foliage provides, the climate is _stifling_. The air is humid and so thick, every breath is difficult, and you already feel sweat collecting on your brow, despite the fact that you haven't moved. A glance behind you reveals you're a few steps away from a rocky cliff wall, which surrounds all sides of the swamp. It gives the impression that you're in a giant bowl of algae soup.

Around the rim of the 'bowl' you can see patches of fluffy white- _snow_? You're confused. Where the hell are you?

Seconds continue to tick by and you turn your attention back to the swamp- and the Cornucopia. That _has_ to be your first stop, despite its spot in the distance and your hesitance to go there. It's surrounded by water so sludgy there's no telling how deep it is- _or_ what's lurking beneath the surface of it.

Should you risk it? Or immediately turn and scale the rocky wall behind you?

You chew your lip, debating, running out of time. You can probably survive without supplies, but if Finn and Quinn- or Jesse- make it to the Cornucopia, it leaves them with a huge advantage. You have to at least try for _something_ and hope you don't run into- well, _something unfortunate._

If water gets in your boots, that could prove detrimental to you in the future. But either way you choose, you have to travel through the swamp water at some point. _Shit_.

You make up your mind quickly. You _have_ to make it to the Cornucopia. You're good, but you don't want to risk taking on a heavily-armed Jesse without weapons- or Finn and Quinn, for that matter-

Or _Santana_-

You grit your teeth. You can't think about that, not now. You tense, ready to spring off your tiny platform the second you hear the gong. You practically hear your pulse racing, and then-

The sound of the gong echoing in the sticky air sends you hurtling forward. You jump down, your boots plunging into calf-deep water. You silently curse the depth, knowing the Gamemakers made it that way on purpose to cause you hassle later as you power through. By the time you take three steps, most of your pants are soaked, and you're struggling just to breathe. The air seems to be getting thicker the deeper into the swamp you go. Sweat drips down the side of your neck. You wish you had time to take off your jacket, but you're just going to have to suffer. You can take it off when you get to a safer location.

As you splash through the water, you wonder if it will possibly get deeper, but you don't really have time to worry about that, you have to-

A sickening snap followed by a scream of agony draws your attention to the right, and you see the boy from District 3 literally lose his legs- sheared clean off- from something in the water. Blood spatters, the dark color swallowed by the green of the stagnant water, and the boy's glasses land with a splash a few feet away as he gets sucked under the surface.

You have no clue what took him out; all you saw was a flash of large, dark, purple-colored pincers- _mutts_- but you decide you don't want to stay in the water to find out. You make your way over to a nearby fallen tree trunk and lift yourself out of the murky, muddy water. Carefully keeping your balance, you move quickly along the trunk, pleased that your boots grip the rough bark rather easily and trying not to think of the gruesome mangling you just witnessed.

Watching the boy go down unnerved you for just a second. There was no warning, no way he could've prepared.

That could've easily been you.

You resolve to be more cautious as you continue to swiftly make your way to the Cornucopia. You don't see anyone you recognize yet, but you can hear the sound of people splashing through the water after you, all struggling to reach the center of the swamp, to reach game-changing supplies.

You want to avoid going into the actual horn of the Cornucopia if at all possible. You don't need anything huge- a simple knife will do. You need _some_ kind of weapon, something you can use, and maybe- _there_! A tiny black satchel dangles from a branch above you, and you reach up to snatch it as you move, not bothering to look into it as you loop it over your shoulder, letting the strap rest across your chest. You can look later.

Now you just need-

Movement to your right has you dodging to the left as the pale, dopey boy from District 10 reaches your side. He looks terrified as he spots you, but you quickly size him up. _Not a threat_. You don't have time to engage him, especially if he's not actively trying to attack you.

He opens his mouth, but before he can speak, a sword rips through his chest, the tip of it emerging pointed at you, red with blood. You glare over the boy's shoulder to find Jesse standing, an arrogant smirk on his face, and you swallow the sick wave of dread that comes at the realization that he's already _armed_ and making his first kill.

You can't waste any more time.

You rush left, towards the Cornucopia, shocked at how _fast_ Jesse is. You have to arm yourself, or you're never going to survive, not _now_-

"You're making this too easy!" Jesse sneers after you as you bolt away. You hear his pounding footsteps on the log behind you. Your heart races. You're yards away from reaching the center platform, which the Cornucopia rests on, surrounded by half-submerged logs and rotting planks of wood. Crates and bags lie sprawled on some of them, getting bigger the closer they rest to the horn. The actual opening of the horn faces the other way, which is just fine with you. You just need something- you don't care what it is- so you can get the fuck out of this swamp. You can already feel yourself struggling for air.

Up ahead you spot Finn by the tail of the horn, and more dread washes over you. No way can you take on Finn _and_ Jesse-

You need a weapon!

Splashes and screams from the left startle you. Jesse's footsteps still thunder behind you. You know he's going to reach you any second-

A glint catches your eye, and you spy a long knife lying on top of a metal crate resting on a wide plank on your right, the sun reflecting off the silver pommel.

It will do.

The second your fingers close around the handle, you're whirling to face Jesse. It's not the most ideal weapon to take on someone with a _sword_, but you don't exactly have a choice.

He laughs when he spots you, slowing to a stop. His face is drenched with sweat, and you know yours can't look much better.

"You're not serious, are you?"

You keep your gaze hard as you shift your stance, crouching and keeping your center of gravity low to balance on the bobbing plank you're standing on. You hold the knife upside down in your right hand, ready to defend yourself and stab Jesse as soon as he makes a move dumb enough to give you an opening.

"Try me," you tell him.

Your deadly, challenging tone makes him hesitate, and that's when you strike. You lunge forward, aiming to plunge your knife into his stomach- you want him to _suffer_, the way you suffered through his bragging for _days_. He twists, managing to avoid your killing blow, but not your knife completely. It skips across his side, and you're satisfied when it comes back red.

He swings his sword at you in retaliation, but you duck and tackle his legs. The force pushes him backwards and he stumbles off the log and hits the water with a loud splash.

You should finish him off- you don't know when you'll get another chance to take him down like this- but you're feeling edgy; you can't stay here. It's too dangerous. Too many opponents, and you already have what you came for.

A woman screaming on your right- _too close_- reminds you that Finn is nearby, which means Quinn and the rest of her alliance- and _Santana_- are too. You turn to grab up another small bag settled at the foot of the nearby metal crate, and familiar movement out of the corner of your eye makes you twist your body.

You barely dodge a spear as it hurtles towards you, landing within reach, embedded in a tree. You snatch up the small pack you'd been crouching to get- you hope it's something good considering you almost died- and scramble back to your feet.

You turn to find the fish-lipped boy from District 4- Sam- glaring at you, his arm still in throwing position. _Fuck_. Is _everyone_ after you?

You sling the second bag over your shoulder to join the first one, turn, and grab the butt of the spear, yanking it loose from its resting place. At least you have another weapon-

A hard blow to your jaw from the right knocks you down and you hit the rough bark beneath you hard, scraping your palms a little as you land.

You look up at Noah, from District 11, and part of _Team Quinn_, who's towering over you. He looks like he could rip you apart with his bare hands, and you definitely don't want to find out if that's his plan.

You watch his weight shift, and, anticipating his movement, you roll to the right and kick your leg up, hitting him in the side of his thigh and striking his main nerve. He drops immediately and you climb to your feet, snatching up your spear, your jaw aching. You're just about to plunge the spear through Noah's chest when you see the glint of metal in the distance and spot Quinn.

She's perched, looking like an eagle about to take flight, aiming an arrow at you.

And that's when you decide you really don't fucking have time to be here right now.

You forget Noah, and jump into the water. You hope the creepy mutts in the muck are satisfied from disfiguring the other tributes as you splash towards the edge of the cliff, maneuvering around rotting trees and trying to keep one at your back to throw off Quinn's aim. All the while you struggle to suck in enough air, feeling like each breath you get less and less. Your chest aches. You need to _get out of here_.

You reach the edge of the swamp and frantically search for a good start point for your climb up the rock wall. It's not too terribly steep, but it's high enough that you're going to have to put forth some serious effort if you want to make it up without being killed- especially since you'll be helpless while you're climbing.

The sound of splashing behind you reminds you that you need to move your ass, and when the splashing stops, it raises a serious alarm in your head; _someone's aiming_.

You quickly shift to the right, and when a small knife hits and clangs off of the rocks beside you, in the spot where you were just seconds before, you turn, thankful that your instincts were right. You find the small, dark-skinned girl from District 11- Bee or Bebe, or something, you don't remember- glaring hatefully at you. She raises another knife, preparing to throw it at you, so you do the only thing you can.

You throw your spear and skewer her through the chest.

She doesn't have time to scream as she sinks to her knees in the water, clutching the spear.

You're thankful her aim sucked, but as you fish for and pick up the second, drenched knife and tuck it into your belt, you mourn the loss of your spear. That would've been much handier, but at least it saves you the trouble of having to try and climb this small wall while holding it.

You plant your foot securely and begin pulling yourself up, still gasping for breath from the steamy, thick air. Sweat runs in rivers down your face, and your hair is practically soaked. The jacket you're wearing is sweltering, and as you reach the top and your hand confirms what you suspected- that there's snow surrounding the edge of the cliff- you pull yourself up and collapse, grateful for the cooling slush that presses to your face.

You can't rest here, though. You have to keep moving.

You get to your feet and look around again. It seems like you're on top of a mountain, which surprises you. Your ribcage aches from struggling to breathe in the thin air. You stare down the mountain- most of what you can see is snow, but in the distance, you can see trees. Forest. _That's_ where you need to go. The ground will most likely be rocky; you can just barely make out the shapes of boulders and piles of large stones scattered across the terrain. It's not a very steep incline, which means there's no telling how high you are, or how big the arena actually is.

You take a deep breath, preparing yourself for your descent, but the sound of boots crunching on snow draws your attention to the left.

You bring your arms up in defense, and the District 9 tribute- your heart pounds, _District 9_- clumsily swings a knife at you, tearing through your jacket and slicing your forearm open. Pain registers and you feel hot blood drip down your arm, but in a background sort of way as you quickly slam into him and wrap his arm tightly in a hold, keeping him from cutting you again. You grab his chin, cupping it in your palm, and push, snapping his neck; then you release him. He falls backward, his weight taking him over the edge of the cliff, and you watch his body hit the rocks and roll into the water. Movement down below catches your eye, and you look to find a group approaching the bottom of the cliff- Quinn, Finn, Noah, who limps slightly, the blonde District 4 girl, and-

_Santana._

Your heart flutters at the sight of her. She has a shallow cut beneath her eye and her jacket is a little torn. Her hair is pulled up into a tight ponytail. She stands, staring up at you, her gaze devoid of hate or anger when she meets your gaze; the sight of her brown eyes makes your gut twist. In her left hand she holds a long sickle-

And suddenly, her training score makes total sense to you.

Quinn raises her bow to shoot at you, but you're already gone.

* * *

You trudge steadily and swiftly through ankle-deep snow, concerned at how quickly your body temperature has dropped. You're shivering violently as you make your way down the mountain, towards the trees. The humidity from the swamp soaked you with sweat, and the abrupt cold has chilled you to your bones. You grit your teeth to keep them from chattering as freezing wind blasts sharply across your face, stinging your nose and ears. You vaguely wonder if you'll die from pneumonia before Quinn or Jesse can even reach you.

As you reach the edge of the snow, the ground shifts to loose, shifty rocks. You have to hold your arms out for balance as you work your way further down the unstable terrain, but at least it's warmer in the forest. As you walk, your mind races, replaying the bloodbath at the Cornucopia. You haven't heard the cannons yet, so the fight must still be happening. You know you witnessed two deaths and caused two yourself, but you have no idea how many people died.

You hope you don't end up regretting not killing Jesse when you had the chance.

You also hope one of the mutts got him- he _did_ fall in the water, after all. Despite the cheery thought, somehow you know dealing with him won't be that easy. You'll run into him again- but not any time soon. You've put enough distance behind you that he's going to have to search for a while.

Quinn and her team will probably find you before he does- but they aren't the only ones out there. You have no way of knowing who is still alive, but you can take a guess that Sam and his allies are still a threat. Everyone else, you wouldn't bet on.

Without meaning to, your thoughts drift back to the moment you spotted Santana. Seeing her had triggered several different reactions in you. You'd been happy to see her alive and mostly unharmed, but even now, knowing she's allied with Quinn turns your stomach cold. Did Quinn even let her live past the moment you'd seen her? Does she have a plan?

You remember the sickle she'd held in her hands- the glint of the sun off of the cruel curve of the dark gray blade and how effortlessly Santana carried it- and you inwardly kick yourself for being so _stupid_.

_Grain_. Of _course_ she'd be skilled with that particular tool! Why didn't you realize it before?

The thundering boom of a cannon startles you out of your thoughts, and you pause to count, sighing with relief that the initial bloodbath is over.

Seven… Eight… Nine…

The cannons stop, and you continue on your way, keeping your eyes out for somewhere secluded you can rest to check your inventory. You stumble over a rock and steady yourself on a large boulder. When you pull your hand away, you leave a red smear, and that's when you remember- you're still bleeding.

You quickly find a niche between two trees, and after waiting and listening for anyone who might be following you, you settle down to survey your damage. You slip off the two packs you'd managed to acquire and quickly peel off your jacket, which is still mostly wet- you'll have to hang it to dry once you secure shelter. You examine your left forearm and find it covered in blood. You'd managed to take the damage along the bone of your arm, preserving the fleshy part and your nerves, and thankfully, the cut isn't too deep. You're mostly worried about the handprint you left on the boulder which, to a trained tracker like Jesse, is an obvious clue that you were here.

You won't be able to stay long. You have to wrap your arm up and get moving again. You hope there's something helpful in the bags you snatched. Carefully, you open the two bags and remove their contents, grateful when you find some items you can use. The first bag contains a small mirror, a large, yellow tarp, matches, and an apple. _Huh_. The second bag contains a small cloth, a mini first aid kit containing only gauze bandages and a bottle of antiseptic so tiny you wonder why they even bothered, and an empty metal canteen.

The boom of a cannon in the distance surprises you, and your stomach gives a lurch. You vaguely wonder what happened, forcing yourself not to think of-

You shake your head and stare back down at your supplies, studying them. You're grateful you have a canteen, and, worst case scenario, if you can't find clean water, you can trek back up the mountain to gather some snow- though you'd rather not get anywhere near that swamp again, or the cold.

Once you repack everything into one bag, you decide to actually try and find some running water to clean your forearm in and to fill your canteen. You set out, listening carefully for the sound of water rushing through rocks or anything that might give away the location of a stream. It takes a while- the sun is low in the sky when you finally locate a tiny brook. You trace its mouth uphill slightly and find an opening in the rocks- a cave. You wonder if perhaps the mountain is hollow. At first glance, it doesn't look like it.

You'll have to explore the cave later, though; for now you decide to bandage your arm and find a place to settle for the night. You crouch down and wash away the blood on your arm, then use a few precious drops of the antiseptic to ensure you don't contract anything from the dirty swamp water. When you finish, you wrap your arm with the bandage and secure it carefully. You carefully taste the water; it's not the purest liquid you've ever had, but it seems safe. Once you've quenched your thirst and filled your canteen, you focus on finding someplace to sleep.

It's just turning dark when you find a good spot to rest for the night. The trees are dense and covered with vines, giving you plenty of foliage- not that you need it. If anyone finds you, it's going to be a bad day for them. You smile at the thought and just to prove your own bravado, you set to work using the vines to weave a hammock. You smile at your handiwork and look up. It would be impossible to be ambushed from above because of the spacing between the trees; as a precaution you gather some dry twigs and hollow nuts to scatter around you. Jesse might be skilled enough to avoid stepping on them and making noise, but you doubt Sam and his cronies are.

After you climb a nearby tree and hang your jacket from a branch and remove your damp boots to dry, you settle into your hammock, keeping your knife close. You feel your stomach tensing; you hadn't heard any cannons since the bloodbath, but you're still worried about Santana. You wonder if this is how Hank felt last year, stressing over Harmony. You know they didn't become allies in the arena, and you can guess why- too painful.

Again, you shake your head at yourself for not recognizing Santana for what she is- a skilled opponent. You have to start retraining your thinking to see her as such, but you can't overcome the sick worry- the total _fear_- that hits you whenever you think about seeing her face in the sky. Your stomach tenses with anticipation. You know any moment now, the ceremony is going to start.

Will Santana's face be up there?

Did she make it past the first day?

You close your eyes and try to slow your heart, which is suddenly pounding at the thought. You swallow several times, trying to work past the anxious feeling that's overcome you.

_Santana is my enemy_, you remind yourself. _Sooner or later her face will be up there._

You came here with a job to do. Your father's tags are still around your neck, still reminding you of your duty to your District- to _him_. You can't hesitate to kill anyone- even Santana- if they give you the opportunity. You _will_ be the victor. There's no other choice.

But then you remember the way Santana looked at you this morning before you left. You remember the way the moonlight bounced off her supple, tan skin. You remember the way her brown eyes looked when she came on your fingers, how she strangled them inside her. You remember the feel of her thighs and her ass and her breasts, and the way her mouth felt pressed up against yours, devouring you.

You remember the way she touched you.

A shudder rips through you, and with it, a surge of anger. You're supposed to be over this. You-

The first few notes of the Capitol's Anthem echoes over the mountain, and you crane your neck to see into the night sky, feeling your pulse suddenly pick up drastically. You almost cross your fingers. You don't want Santana to die- but god, you really don't want to kill her yourself. If she's already dead, then-

The first face that lights the sky is the boy tribute from District 3- the one you saw lose his legs. The reminder makes you swallow thickly as the girl from District 3 appears next, confirming your suspicion that Finn, Quinn, and Jesse are all still alive.

The next face is the male tribute from District 5, which surprises you. He'd seemed to do well in training, and though not particularly muscular, he was very flexible and evasive. The male tribute from District 6 appears after, and it's the first time you've spared a thought for Marley. You brace yourself, but the girl from District 8- another small, quiet girl- appears, and you find yourself relieved.

So Marley made it through the first day.

You smile briefly before you remind yourself that her survival is _not_ beneficial to you winning. Your face falls, and you watch as the boy from District 9, the one you'd killed, flashes next, then the boy from District 10, whom Jesse stabbed before you. You can't help the way your body relaxes at the lack of Santana's face in the sky, but, just like with Marley, you remind yourself that that's not making your life easier.

The girl from 10, the girl from 11- the one you skewered- and both tributes from District 12 flash next, and then the closing anthem plays.

You take a deep breath. How many tributes died on the first day? Eleven? You must have missed a cannon somehow; you suppose it doesn't matter, though.

There's still half the tributes left to outlast. Finn and Quinn are still out there. Jesse is still out there. Sam and his team are still out there.

Santana is still out there.

* * *

**Okay, so this chapter got split again because, length. I swear I can't shut up, ever!**

**Next chapter, Brittana meet again and we catch up with the beginning of the fic. Are you guys excited?!**

**I'm sure you're more excited about BRITTANAAAAAAAA! AHHH!**

**Review if you have time and/or care, but if not, it's okay! I'll see you guys next chapter, which I will be writing from my grave! **

**BRITTANA IS ENDGAME!**


	8. Rules

**A/N:** Hello, my darlings. Are you as dead as I am right now? Because I'm currently writing this from the afterlife. *_* OMG BRITTANA THO ERWEWRMKVKD

Okay, okay. I'm fine.

SDHFSNFKSMS NO I'M NOT FINE AHHHH BRITTANAAAAAA

XD

Anyways. Thanks to everyone who reviewed the last chapter! You guys ROCK! :D I'm also enjoying your guesses with who the dead tributes are! I can't tell if my descriptions were clever, or if you guys are just really smart and awesome! (Hint: It's the latter.)

Really appreciate all the feedback and excitement. Again, I'd like to thank my Kill Consultant, Lighthouse (**NegativeSpaces**) for being awesome.

Again, a reminder that there is **violence and death** in this chapter! Be CAREFUL!

* * *

The sound of boots crunching on twigs nearby wakes you from the shallow sleep you're in, and you're instantly on high alert- but you don't open your eyes. Instead, you focus your attention on any clues that might help you identify the intruder.

Or _intruders_, because you can distinctly make out three different breaths and sets of steps, coming from three different- though close- directions. You keep your eyes shut and your breathing steady, waiting, biding your time, and strain to listen for indicators.

The fact that there's more than one person already has you ruling out Jesse as your attacker. He wouldn't team up with anyone, and he certainly wouldn't be as careless as these three tributes. The steps are heavy and clumsy, so you also rule out anyone from Team Quinn. Finn might be a dope, but you're certain that Quinn's smart enough not to let him screw up a chance to take you down with his bumbling, loud footsteps.

You deduce that the only group left is Sam and his allies, which calms you. You're more than reasonably certain that you'll be able to take them on, even in your prone state lying in a hammock, barefoot. You can feel adrenaline flooding your system, your pulse picking up as you prepare to make your move.

The closest person stops beside you, and you wait. You can hear his steady, heavy breathing, and when it stops, you know he's holding his breath.

Readying his attack.

When you hear his weight shift, indicated by the barest brush of leaves at his feet, your eyes snap open and you roll to the left, towards your attacker's body, and nimbly avoid the spear that stabs toward you and catches in the netting of your hammock. As you roll, you shoot your right hand up and slam the boy tribute from District 8 in the throat. He staggers back, hacking, his snarled spear staying where it's lodged in your hammock. You sit up quickly and hop to your feet, drawing your knife as you step out to meet your opponents.

Sam is on your left, pointing a spear at you, and the girl tribute from District 5 is on your right, armed with a short, thin sword. The boy from District 8 is doubled over behind you, still coughing from your blow to his throat- _unarmed_. You don't know anything about him, other than that he wore the ugliest bowtie you've ever seen to his Interview. You don't know much about the girl from District 5, either- her eyes are slanted and you wonder if she can even see out of them, since she's glaring at you and it's still dark out, with the trees blocking the moonlight.

You _do_ know about Sam, though. He's strong; he _volunteered_. And he will probably be the hardest to take down out of the three. You shift your focus on him, tightening your grip on your knife.

His cold eyes meet yours, and he offers you a smile with his huge, fishy lips. "You're outnumbered, Brittany," he tells you coolly.

"But I'll _still_ kill you," you answer with a playful shrug, watching Sam carefully for any sign that he's about to attack. He doesn't seem to like your answer, because he narrows his eyes and leans forward, tightening his grip on his spear. He looks to his left, but you don't turn; you know he's silently signaling the girl tribute, and you prepare yourself for the assault.

You _feel_ her move rather than hear her- almost like the energy around you shifts, you're so attuned to the people surrounding you. The girl lunges at you from the right, and Sam comes at you from the front, expecting you to move backward.

Instead, you step forward.

Sam's eyes widen as you move closer, in reach of his spear. He obviously did not expect that, and as you move even closer, within arm's reach, he scrambles to bring his spear nearer to his body, to utilize it against you as you enter his personal space and stay close.

You can sense that the girl has halted her attack, unsure where to aim. You know she's not a skilled fighter- District 5 is a poor District, and she hasn't spent time training like you or Sam. Sam probably only keeps her for the sake of safety in numbers and for no other reason.

So now that you've thrown off their plan- you've done the opposite of what they were expecting- she doesn't know how to respond, because Sam's spear is still useless on you in your close proximity, but could still hurt _her_ if she makes the wrong move and gets between you. Sam tries to put distance between himself and you, but you stay with him, and he's eventually forced to drop his spear in order to defend himself as you bring your knife in close to his neck.

You're surprised by how easy this is.

Your blade begins to stab across Sam's throat, but stops barely an inch into the cut because he grabs your wrist. Blood seeps down his neck, soaking his jacket, and you smirk at the sight; then, within the span of a few seconds, you turn your body, pressing your back to his front. With your left hand you draw the second knife from your belt and stab it into the side of his left thigh, which is situated behind yours. He yelps and immediately releases your wrist, and you lunge forward, ripping your knife from his thigh and causing severe muscle damage, to engage the girl tribute. Sam hits the ground behind you, bleeding. Helpless.

Easy.

You flip your hold on the knife in your right hand from pointing down to pointing up, then swing your left hand around, throwing the second, smaller knife- still covered in Sam's blood- at the District 5 tribute. It hits the girl in her right shoulder, right at the joint, and sticks there, halting her advance; her eyes grow wide with fear and she backs away a few steps. You smile at her. You've watched her in training- you know she's no match for you. Her only chance at taking you was to utilize the element of surprise, or strength in numbers.

But now, with Sam bleeding on the ground, crawling away pathetically, and the Distict 8 boy reaching for his hopelessly entangled spear, she's lost her advantage. You can tell immediately that she's realizing all of these things as well- that if she wants to beat you, she'll have to ambush you.

So as she backs away quickly, you don't follow her.

"See you soon," you murmur instead, and turn your attention to Sam.

He's already climbed to his feet and started to hobble away, bracing himself against trees as he goes. He won't make it far, not with the damage you've caused him. And if you don't find him, Jesse will. You know you've just dissolved his alliance- he won't trust the girl in his wounded, weaker state, and she has lost her advantage by partnering with him for his strength- he's useless now.

And to make things even better, he left you his spear.

That just leaves the other boy. You feel sorry for him for a moment- that his two allies so quickly abandoned him to you- but then you remember that he tried to kill you just moments before, though he failed miserably at it, and all sympathy you might've had vanishes.

You bend to pick up Sam's spear.

"Turn around," you tell him, your voice cold and emotionless. You have a rule: you won't actively hunt anyone down- Jesse's already doing that. You don't _want_ to have to kill anyone. But anyone who attacks you, anyone who hunts _you_ down- you won't hesitate.

The District 8 tribute made your choice for you already.

"Turn around," you tell him again, louder, just in case he didn't hear you the first time. When he ignores your request again, still struggling desperately to free the spear that's caught in your hammock, you sigh. You'd hoped he'd make this easy.

You step up behind him, cautiously- you don't know if he has another weapon, but you doubt it- he would've used it already, if he was smart. He _has_ to know that letting you this close is a fatal mistake. It takes him a moment to realize you're as close as you are, but once he does, he tries to turn and face you.

You don't let him.

You slip your right arm around his neck and hug him close to you, lifting up and choking him with your elbow. He struggles, he claws at your arms- at your already damaged forearm- and the sharp bite of pain makes you release him.

He collapses to the hammock on his back, gasping. You can hear his chest rattling as he chokes on air, as he begins to sob. By now he must realize his time in the Games is over. He must realize that you're about to end his life. He struggles to get away from you, his eyes wide with fear, wet with tears, as you tower over him, as you quickly dominate him. You're on him, and he kicks at you, but you strike him in the face, hearing his nose shatter beneath your palm, knocking him back. Blood drips heavily from his cracked nose. You quickly wrap loose vines around his neck- vines from your hammock- and you pull them tight, feeling his desperation grow as you strangle the life out of him.

Frenzied, he grabs at your dark shirt, trying to pull you out of the locked position you're in above him. His fist beats at your shoulder, his other hand clawing frantically at the vines around his neck. You feel his body convulse beneath you as he tries to breathe, as he tries to escape you.

But there _is_ no escape.

The intimacy of the moment does not escape you as you watch the life slowly seep out of him. You wonder if this is how you'll kill Santana when-

_No!_

With a snarl, you force the image of Santana beneath you, of Santana's fingers clawing desperately at your arm, out of your mind and shove the District 8 tribute away. He barely has time to suck in a gasp of air before you plunge your knife below his sternum. You hear him choke, but you don't stop as you rip the knife down, opening him up like a slaughtered animal, numb to the blood and guts that gush from the wound.

A cannon sounds.

You barely hear it. You're still imagining your hands around Santana's delicate throat, the light draining from her brown eyes. Your chest aches- you feel like you can't breathe. Your heart is pounding, and you feel tears pricking in the corner of your eyes, which only makes you angrier.

You swallow the bitterness you taste in your mouth, and slowly come out of your dazed state. You're _covered_ in blood. You're going to have to wash up at some point, or run the risk of making yourself a target for mutts. But first, you have some unfinished business to take care of.

Sam.

You climb off of the corpse tangled in your hammock- you knew hammock-making would come in handy- and take a deep breath. You're just about to start tailing him when you hear another cannon. You stand for a moment, confused.

Was that Sam? Did Jesse get him? Did mutts? Did he just die on his own?

If it was Jesse or mutts, you definitely don't want to stay where you're at- it's not safe. You need to press on, anyways. Swiftly, you gather up your scattered supplies. You lost a knife in the District 5 girl's shoulder, but you'll get it back when you see her. Besides, you gained two spears.

You retrieve your jacket and boots from their spot in a nearby tree and find them mostly dry, much to your relief, though now you have to wash yourself. You have no idea what time it actually is, but the slight chill combined with the mist that's crept over the woods around you makes you think it must be close to morning.

You select the better of the two newly-acquired spears for your inventory and snap the shaft of the other one, breaking it into three pieces so someone else can't use it against you. You inspect your forearm- it's started bleeding again, and you curse the boy from District 8. You don't have an endless supply of clean bandages, after all.

You trek your way back to the stream and take some time washing yourself clean of blood and residual swamp goo, enjoying the silence. You re-bandage your arm, using the last of your supply, which was meagre to begin with.

You close your eyes for a moment, centering yourself. You wipe your mind of any of your previous thoughts. Your stomach growls.

Time to go find breakfast.

* * *

You don't have much luck hunting anything. The forest is surprisingly devoid of much wildlife. You manage to scrounge up some berries you're more than a hundred percent certain are safe, but your lack of protein worries you. You're not going to be able to take on Jesse or Team Quinn without the proper nourishment. For a moment, you consider heading back to the Cornucopia- surely, there's food in some of those crates. No way could the other tributes have gotten them all out of that swamp, and you're reasonably sure they wouldn't stay there and guard them- not with those crab mutts lurking in the sludge.

You're okay for now, though. You haven't quite reached _that_ point yet. You have time to find an alternate source of real nourishment- because the _last_ thing you want to do is go back to that swamp.

As you munch on your berries and the apple from your pack, you try to figure out what you want to do for the rest of the day. With Sam and the District 8 boy gone, the amount of your opponents is diminishing, which is just fine by you.

You suppose you could head back to the cave you found yesterday and check it out. Who knows when it will come in handy?

It doesn't take you long to find the cave again, and you sigh with resentment as you're forced to trudge through knee-deep, frigid water. You wonder if you'll ever experience dry boots again; you hope you're not in the arena long enough for your feet to rot off.

The cave is dark, but not completely. Small beams of light crisscross in from somewhere in the ceiling, and you're amazed at the construction of it all. You have no idea where the light is coming from- you figure there must be ventilation holes that run to the surface of the mountain, but just how deep does this tunnel go?

You think perhaps the lights exist for the cameras to see- because you know there's cameras in this cave somewhere- and it's the first time you've thought about the fact that you're being broadcast across the entire nation. You wonder what your father thought of your latest kill.

You wonder if he was proud of you.

You sigh a little and instead focus on exploring the rest of the cave. The narrow tunnel eventually opens up to a much wider open space, and you're grateful to step onto actual, solid, water-free ground. From the open space, two more tunnels run in opposite direction, and your stomach flips as you realize this system is more complex than you ever could have imagined. You could get lost down here and spend days wandering around.

You also have no idea what mutts lurk in the darkness.

You shake your head. You're better off in the forest. You turn to head back down the tunnel, frowning as your boots hit water again. You've only taken three steps when you hear splashing behind you, but before you can turn, something jumps on your back, causing you to immediately lower your center of gravity in response.

You panic for a split-second before you realize you're not being attacked by a mutt. You're being attacked by the girl from District 5. Frigid water splashes, soaking your still-damp pants as she wrestles you from behind, refusing to let go. She locks her arms around you and her weight, combined with the high water makes it very difficult for you to defend yourself. You drop your spear to free both your hands, cursing as it floats away with the gentle current.

You're going to make this girl pay for your loss.

You're not sure if she followed you into the caves and hid in the shadows, or if she'd been here all along waiting. But either way, she's currently trying to tackle you to the water, and that's something you are _so_ not all right with. You slam your elbow back into her ribs and hear her grunt of protest, but she still doesn't release you. She _must_ have a death wish.

Something flashes in the narrow beam of light, and you recognize the knife you'd buried earlier in the girl's shoulder as it comes down on you. She aims for your heart, but you throw your weight to the right, trying to shake her off, and the blade drags across your collarbone instead. You barely feel the pain, though the bright red of your blood catches your attention.

With your opponent off-balance, you quickly drop to one knee in the water and roll the girl tribute off your shoulder. She lands with a splash on her back before you, and that's when you know this fight is over.

The first thing you do is step on her wrist so she can't stab you with the knife still clutched in her hand.

The second thing you do is press your right palm to her throat and force her head under the water. You catch a glimpse of her wide, terrified eyes before they're swallowed up by the foam. She thrashes, kicks, just like the boy from District 8, but, just like him, she can't break your hold. Her struggling drenches you, splashes you with water. But you push harder, crushing her windpipe, crushing the air from her.

Her free hand claws at you, and unlike your previous opponent, she has sharp nails that gouge angry red lines down your good arm, drawing dark blood that trickles down your bicep. You don't feel it. All you feel is the way her body spasms beneath you, the way her throat bobs as she chokes on water, the way the water churns from her throes.

Eventually, the bubbles disperse. Her body goes limp.

The cannon sounds.

And without a second thought, you lift your foot, pry your knife from her cold, dead grasp, and exit the cave.

* * *

Four people. Four people in less than two whole days- maybe five if Sam died from your inflicted wound. You wonder how many of the eleven who died on the first day Jesse took out- it couldn't have been more than eight, considering you know how the other three died. You wonder if your odds of winning have gotten better now that you've taken on and defeated Sam's alliance and multiple others.

You wonder if your father is swaggering around your borough of District 2, head held high, boasting about your kills. You'd like to think of him and your mother, standing tall, cheering you on proudly. And your sister, a future Peacekeeper- you hope she is, too.

You let the positive thoughts of your District carry you back into the forest, to an unexplored part, as the sun begins to lower in the sky. The new cut on your collarbone has stopped bleeding, but you haven't cared enough to take care of it yet. Your stomach is growling- they don't call them the _Hunger_ Games for nothing- and you're really hoping you'll run across something you can hunt. You're feeling just a little worn down after so many fights and not enough sleep or food, but you're nowhere near ready to quit.

As you walk, you feel surreal. The forest around you is quiet, and if you didn't know you were in an arena, you'd think you were just walking through a tranquil, untouched area of wilds. It calms and soothes you, and you breathe in, enjoying the clean mountain air and the quiet serenity of nature around you.

You do eventually come across some game- a rabbit and a few squirrels- but you can't find the heart to kill them. You've never been a good hunter, particularly because you feel guilty harming animals. You smile ironically at that- you have no problem gutting a _person_, but you feel bad killing a rabbit.

_Rabbits don't attack me_, you think to yourself as you settle against the roots of a tree, lying your pack beside you. You scan the dark, dense woods- _at least, not yet._

Your stomach rumbles again and you sigh, digging into your bag for the leftover berries you'd found this morning. You promise yourself that you'll hunt in the morning as you lean your head against the trunk and your eyes slip closed.

* * *

The Capitol's Anthem wakes you from your sleep, and you're surprised you slept undisturbed for as long as you did, though it couldn't have been more than a couple of hours- not that you're complaining. You wait for the faces to flash in the sky.

The first face is the girl from District 5 that you drowned, and you're shocked. You thought for sure that unidentified cannon had been Sam, but clearly he survived, and it leaves you wondering who the hell actually died. The next face is the boy from District 8, and again you find yourself relieved that Marley survived the second day. You don't have time to feel worried about Santana before Noah from District 11 appears in the sky. Again, you're shocked; you thought he would make it to the end. You wonder what the hell happened to Team Quinn to cause them to lose Noah. He got such a high score.

Did they run into mutts? Did some other thing happen to them, like a fire or a hailstorm or something?

You close your eyes again and relax as much as you can. There's nine of you left.

At least Santana's alive.

* * *

You wake up early and set to work finding some breakfast. When you come across a small pond with fish, you put your hammock-making skills to work and construct a smaller version that you can use as a net. It takes you a few tries, but you manage to catch something, and after striking up a tiny fire and cleaning your fish, you've got a decent- though bland-tasting- meal.

With a full stomach, you feel a lot better. You take some time cleaning the cut on your collarbone, using the tiny mirror from your bag. It's not exactly the use you had in mind for it when you saw it, but it definitely helps. The cut isn't deep, so you feel okay leaving it exposed- not like you have much of a choice; you're out of bandages.

You know you could go to the Cornucopia and possibly get more. You also wonder if that spearhead is still where you left it by your old hammock- you could use it to make another one. As much as you're enjoying these new, unobtrusive woods, you suppose you should head back to more familiar terrain.

You're halfway back to the site of your hammock when you hear a twig snap, alerting you to someone's presence.

You see the wooden club seconds before it bashes your skull in.

You twist out of the way, narrowly avoiding the blow, and as you leap back, out of reach of the club, you recognize the male tribute from District 7, who looks as if he's made of plastic. You easily evade his advances, and he quickly grows frustrated.

"Stop moving!" He cries desperately, growing sloppier and leaving himself more open with each swing of his makeshift club. You can tell he's scared- you can see it in his sweat, in the clench of his jaw, in the frantic, desperate way he lunges at you.

When he completely misses you and his club bounces off the edge of a nearby tree trunk instead, you seize your opportunity, moving into his personal space, reaching up to end this quickly.

He scrambles to get away, losing his weapon in the process, and you trip him, putting him on his back on the ground. Leaves crunch and swish away as he struggles to put space between you, but when he runs up against a tree, you watch his eyes widen with fear.

He's cornered.

You pick up his discarded weapon. He cries, begs. You shake your head, silent. _He_ started this. _He_ attacked you.

And now he's going to die.

You're devoid of any feelings of sympathy as you bring Plastic's club down on his skull repeatedly. You know your father's watching, cheering you on. When the cannon sounds, you drop the club, reaching up to wipe at a drop of blood that spattered on your cheek from the force of your blows.

He deserved to die. He didn't _have_ to attack you.

You consider keeping his club, but no- it's heavy, and you have a spearhead to-

Something hard hits you in the side, and you're suddenly falling. You hit the ground and slide a little from the slight incline. Leaves rustle, a rock jabs into your thigh. Your attacker doesn't waste any time and aims for your face, landing several blows before you're able to get your arms up to shield yourself. You twist yourself, struggling to throw off your attacker, but she's small, and agile, and-

Santana.

Your stomach tenses. You feel as if a cold fist has grabbed your heart and squeezed it.

_No. _

Santana attempts to hit you again, but you easily analyze her flawed attack and send her hurtling to the ground beside you. Her foot connects with your stomach and your palm nails her in the face. Her lip drips blood down her chin, and the fire in her eyes intensifies.

You don't want to be the one to extinguish it.

_This can't be happening. _

As you overpower Santana, you feel your throat constricting, your breathing picking up, your heart pounding. This isn't what you want. You don't want to kill her- you _told_ her you didn't want to kill her. Why is she making you do this?

You glance at Santana's face and find her calm, resigned. And suddenly you realize- she's giving herself to you. _She's giving her life to you._

She doesn't want anyone else to kill her.

You feel sick as you draw your knife and press it, trembling slightly, to her throat. You draw in heavy, ragged breaths. Your heart feels like it's going to bust your chest open. Tears spring to your eyes.

_No._

Santana doesn't look away.

You stare down at her.

_Do it!_

You know your father is watching- _waiting_. He's waiting for you to cut her open, to end her life. To end _Santana's_ life. He's waiting, and-

Your hand shakes. Your jaw trembles with how hard you clench your teeth.

If you kill Santana-

_Do it!_

If you kill Santana-

Her brown eyes gaze up at yours, intense, fiery, and you remember the way you imagined the light leaving them, and you _can't_. You can't be the one to extinguish it.

You squeeze your eyes shut, your throat so tight it physically hurts. You feel a tear escape your eye and you release a strangled sob of emotion, shaking.

"I can't," you choke, pulling your knife away from her throat. You've never felt more like a coward in your entire life. What must your father think? That you're a failure? That after everything you've been through, you're giving up for-

"_I can_," Santana snarls, and you feel her fingers grip your jaw, twist your head, bring you to the ground, pin you there.

You don't resist. You _can't_.

You can't kill her- but if you have to die, at least it will be by her hand. At least-

You feel cold metal press to your throat, and you swallow. Your eyes slide up to find Santana's, and in that moment, you accept your fate; the last thing you'll see will be Santana's brown eyes.

There's no better way to die.

You wait, breathing roughly, listening to her ragged intakes of breath, and study her face. She has a new cut over her eyebrow, and there's a tiny leaf trapped in her messy ponytail. Her face shows obvious signs of sleep deprivation, but you can't blame her with Quinn around. She glares down at you, brown eyes dark and angry, and you wish she wouldn't look at you like that, like you're awful; like she _hates_ you.

You don't want her to hate you for not taking her life.

"Close your eyes," Santana hisses, though her voice trembles. "_Fuck_." Her hand trembles. You frown, but obediently you squeeze your eyes shut, waiting for her to-

Without warning, you feel lips crashing into yours. You taste blood and Santana, and suddenly, nothing in the world matters in this moment. You'd never dreamed you'd get to kiss Santana again, but it's the best gift you could take with you into death.

You can't help how your whole body responds to the kiss. A moan escapes your throat, rough and low. Your hands reach to tangle fingers in the hair on the back of her head, tugging her closer. Your head turns, deepening the kiss. She takes a shuddering breath, her lips trembling, but doesn't stop kissing you. Her lips press harder into yours and your body arches up, desperate to be closer to her. Your only thought is that this _must_ be what heaven is like, and if this is to be your last kiss, it's certainly a good one.

"Fuck," Santana curses in a hoarse, conflicted whisper when she finally pulls back a little. Your eyes slide open just enough to focus on her. You let your right hand cup her cheek, and you gently run your thumb over her bottom lip, wiping her blood away. She kisses your thumb, her eyes dark; you swallow, your heart pounding harder than ever, before you crane your neck and lean up to kiss her again, soft and lingering, memorizing her taste and the way she fits into all your spaces.

You sigh. "_Now_ you can kill me."

"What?"

"Instead of you," you murmur. "I'm happy to die instead of you." And it's true. You'd be content to die. In your mind, you're too weak, too cowardly to win the Games; you can't kill Santana- you've lost.

In your mind, you've already won.

"Britt," Santana stammers, protesting, and you ignore the fluttery leap your heart makes at the petname. She adjusts her grip on the knife at your throat, which doesn't touch even touch your skin anymore.

"Do it, Santana," you tell her firmly, swallowing. You don't _want_ to die. You'd never even considered dying until right now. It doesn't seem so bad, not if this is how it ends for you. You don't want to die, but you don't want to kill Santana _more_. You can't have both, you know that. There's only one clear solution. "_Do it_."

She looks at you for a long moment, and you stare into each other's eyes. Finally, she pulls the knife away, stabbing it into the ground beside your shoulder. "No," she says, softly. Her voice shakes.

It takes less than a second before you're kissing again, fiercely, tasting blood from her lip and the vibrations from her moan. Everything melts away as she cradles your face, as her tongue darts out, licking into your mouth and across your lips. Her teeth sink into your bottom one and you let them, tightening your grip around her waist as she pushes down into you, making you ache to be closer.

You don't think about the cameras. You don't think about your father, watching you kiss a girl from District 9. You don't think about how all of Panem is currently watching you break the rules. You don't think about anything except the way Santana is kissing you like you're _everything_.

You're not dead; neither is Santana.

The Games just got a lot harder.

* * *

**D:**

**Tell me you guys saw that coming, eh? Eh?! :D**

**Okay, so- think Britt has a looooot of questions for Santana? ;) Poor baby girl has some 'splainin to do, and now that our two-shot is together in the arena, I'm sure they're going to be kicking some ass.**

**Raise your hand if you'd like to see Sam die.**

**Lots of trials- and ~bonding- for our girls ahead! Stay tuned! We're getting down to the last three chapters! **

**Review if you're feeling especially kind today. :D **

**But if not, that's okay. Everyone's entitled to have those other days, too. :)**

**See you soon, pals! **


	9. Adjustment

**A/N:** Wow, guys! Thanks so much for all your feedback on the last chapter! You all are amazing and I'm super pleased that you guys are so excited about this story! I'm excited to get you these last few chapters. A lot of shit is about to go down! :D

I'm also still really enjoying everyone's predictions about how the story will end… All I will say is that when it does end, this story will still fit completely with Hunger Games canon. Take that however you want. :X

This chapter got long so I split it in two again… sorry? XD

As always, special thanks to my Kill Consultant, Lighthouse (**NegativeSpaces**) for helping Britt murder people. She's pretty much the greatest, and if you haven't read her mafia!Brittana story, **The Sin of Silence**, you totally should. She's got some awesome shit planned for it!

Last, another reminder that this contains **graphic violence and death**. Please be cautious!

* * *

Your entire body is on edge as you steal through the forest with Santana by your side. After you'd determined that neither of you could kill the other, Santana had reluctantly dismounted you. She'd retrieved her supplies- and her _weapon_- from some nearby bushes, and the sight of her holding that sickle makes you wonder if she ever intended to kill you at all. She could've easily used it against you, but she chose to attack you unarmed. You think perhaps she only meant for _herself_ to die, and all of it makes your chest feel warm and tight.

Once her stuff was gathered, she'd looked at you expectantly, and wordlessly let you lead her back into the forest, to the site of your old hammock. It takes you a little time to find it- after all, the reason you chose the location initially was because it's secluded- but when you finally reach the familiar area, you're reminded of the fight- and the brutal killing- that took place here.

You steal a glance at Santana's face and find her indifferent to the lingering bloodstains and unexplainable heavy air that hangs over the area. For the first time, you feel a little ashamed at how mercilessly you killed the District 8 boy. If Santana had been there, would she have approved? What does she think of your ruthlessness? Your stomach twists as you wonder what she's thinking.

She waits in silence while you scan the ground, searching for the spear head. You look quickly, eager to leave this place. It's making your thoughts cloudy. It's making you remember the way you imagined Santana beneath you, Santana being _strangled_, and with her presence nearby, the thoughts make you feel guilty and sad.

You find the sharp point lying beneath some leaves near the base of a tree, and after you retrieve it and put it in your bag, you pause for a moment. You need to find someplace safe to camp for the night.

With Santana.

Your mind races with a million questions that you're dying to ask, but now is not the time, not while you're on the move. You try to make sense of your convoluted thoughts and your conflicted emotions. On the one hand, you're ecstatic that Santana is alive, that she's beside you- evidenced by the way your heart pounds at her close proximity.

But on the other hand, having her with you makes the Games a lot more difficult. You don't know anything about her. You don't know her fighting style. You don't know how capable she is of taking care of herself, though she's lasted as long as you without nearly as many fights, so that should speak for something. She also managed to escape Quinn with not only her weapon, but a bag of supplies. You still don't know what happened; you're hoping once you settle down somewhere, you'll be able to talk.

You decide that the denser, quieter woods are a safer place to rest. You take one more moment to pull a long drink of water from your canteen, and as you swallow, you feel Santana's eyes on you. She's watching you intently, and without thought, you offer her the canteen. She moves close, accepting it, and downs the rest of it quickly. You're surprised by how thirsty she is; you wonder when the last time she had water was. You study her, too many questions floating around in your mind.

As she finishes, water trickles down the side of her chin, and when she reaches to wipe the drops away, handing the mostly-empty container back to you, you imagine licking the liquid from her skin, kissing the drops away from her moist lips. Your throat goes dry as you trace your eyes over her mouth, remembering how she tasted earlier and aching to suck on her lip.

Your eyes find hers, and she stares at you, her brown eyes expressing gratitude- and something darker- in their depths. It leaves you feeling like you're struggling for breath, but you can't allow yourself to get distracted right now.

You tear your gaze away and press on, reminding yourself to stop by the stream to refill your canteen on the way.

* * *

By the time you make camp, catch several fish for a meal, and start a small fire- which Santana gathers the kindling for- you're feeling pretty relaxed. Santana gives you a sense of security, though you're not quite sure why. You know you shouldn't trust her- at least, not right away- but you can't help the way she breaks through all your defenses.

As you skillfully clean your catch, you watch Santana out of the corner of your eye as she unpacks her supplies, rolling out a very thin sleeping bag on the ground and lying her sickle next to it. You turn your attention back to cooking dinner, and once the fish is finished, you glance at Santana. She hasn't moved from her spot, hasn't said a word to you. She sits staring into the distance, and you can't help but admire how beautiful she looks in the last dying rays of the sun.

She notices you staring and turns to meet your gaze, and when your eyes connect you feel a flash of heat low in your stomach. You swallow and offer her a gentle, crooked smile, and your heart thuds noticeably harder when she smiles shyly back at you, reaching up to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear. You offer her dinner, and she accepts, and the two of you eat in silence.

You're dying to ask her questions, but you're worried about saying the wrong thing and upsetting her. You're worried about breaking the fragile truce you're in. You're worried you might lose her, and that thought alone makes your heart ache, so you ignore your burning curiosity and focus on eating. You share the canteen back and forth between you, and the ease and lack of awkwardness gives you a warm feeling. You and Santana just go together, like magnets; you can't help being drawn to everything about her.

After a few more minutes of contemplative silence, Santana sighs and looks at you. "Well?" she asks, a little impatient, and you're taken aback a bit by her tone; was she expecting something from you? At your bewildered look, she elaborates, "Aren't you going to ask me about what happened?"

"Oh," you say, relieved that it's not something important. You duck your head, feeling a little embarrassed for not asking sooner. "I didn't want to ruin the moment," you mutter, scratching your knee.

Her gaze softens. "Do you want to know?"

You nod. "If you want to tell me."

She's quiet for a moment, and you wait patiently, though anxiously. She seems to wrestle with herself for a moment before she says, "I knew it was only a matter of time before they killed me. Noah- he was such a pompous _asshole_. I expected that from Quinn and even," she glances in your direction, "from _you_. But not from someone from District Eleven, I mean, fuck."

You nod, smiling just a little. You want to ask her if she was right- if she still thinks you're a pompous asshole- but she continues.

"We didn't do much of anything the first few days. I mean, we took out some people in the initial bloodbath, but after that, Quinn was obsessed with making a base and hoarding supplies," Santana tells you quietly, staring into the fire. "We spent most of the time counting the cannons and letting Jesse pick off people. Her plan was to save our strength to make it down to the last few survivors- you and Jesse, and Sam, and whomever else. Then, we could easily take everyone down because they'd be pretty worn out." She laughs, rolling her eyes a little. "Some glorious plan, huh?"

You shrug. "You've all made it so far."

Santana looks at you as if you've said something she can't decipher, but then turns her attention back to the fire. "Quinn had just decided that it was time to start picking off the remaining tributes. I guess she wasn't winning the Games fast enough for her liking."

"I'm not surprised," you offer with a playful smile, but Santana doesn't return it. She looks a little pained- a little conflicted- as she continues, and you wonder what she's not telling you, because you can tell that she's not telling you _something_.

"After we set out, I knew that my time with Quinn was drawing to a close. I have no problem defending myself," Santana says, her voice hard, "but I can't just-" she pauses. She looks at you again, and your heart twinges at the pain in her expression. You wish she would tell you what she's not saying, because you have a sneaking suspicion about Santana's feelings for you, but you have no way to be _sure_- unless she tells you.

"How did you escape?" you ask instead, your voice barely above a whisper.

She gives a slight laugh. "Finn got caught in a _trap_. He's such a fucking idiot. I saw it from a mile away- _we all did_. But what does _he_ do? Walks _right_ into it." She shakes her head. "He ended up dangling by his foot from a tree, and in the confusion, I-" she takes a deep breath and her voice grows cold and harsh again. "I gutted Noah. I left him bleeding out his entrails. I originally planned to take out Finn, but he did that himself. I knew Kitty wouldn't pursue me alone, and I knew Quinn wouldn't just leave Finn, so I was in the clear to make my escape."

"Wait," you say. "Her name is Kitty?"

Santana looks at you, her eyes clear and bright. "I tracked you for a while," she says softly. "You didn't exactly cover your footprints. You should be more careful, especially with Quinn after you."

You shrug. _Everyone's_ after you.

"I wanted you to kill me," Santana confesses. "I wanted- I _want_ it to be you."

"Santana," you start hopelessly, feeling overwhelmed. You thought you already established that you don't have it in you to kill her; you thought you'd made that clear. Is that the only reason she's still hanging around with you? Because she hopes you'll change your mind? Your heart sinks. Maybe you were wrong about her feelings.

She doesn't respond to your plea and instead gazes off into the dark forest. You try to ignore the painful clenching in your heart and instead remind yourself that you have fish you should be eating. You take a bite, but the awkward silence between you and Santana is killing you, so you try to think of something to say.

"Where are they?" you finally settle on. "I mean, Quinn and her team."

Santana shrugs, seeming to come out of her quiet spell, and returns to eating also, which pleases you. "Who knows? They _were_ situated at the bottom of the mountain; there's an enormous tangle of brambles surrounding the base." Your ears perk up; this is news to you. You hadn't even thought to explore all the way down the mountain. You'd been content in the woods. Santana continues, "The first thing we did was carve out a hole in the thorn wall to store our supplies. But now that I've betrayed them, I'm sure they've moved on- they'd be fools not to."

"Maybe, maybe not," you say encouragingly. "We should check it out tomorrow."

Santana stops; she looks up at you, her eyes dark. "We?"

You push down the nervousness that rises in you and shrug helplessly. Are you assuming too much thinking you and Santana are now allies? Are you being foolish- _hopeful_- imagining her by your side?

Santana smirks at you, her face shifting closer. When she speaks, her voice is low and soothing, and it sends a tingle down your spine. "I thought you didn't do allies."

You swallow. You feel powerless under Santana's deep, penetrating gaze. She seems to look right through you, and it makes you feel the same way you did when you fucked her so intimately in her room. The memory sends a flash of heat through you and your stomach twists. You drop your eyes to your lap briefly, shaking your head a little. "I _don't_."

Her hand cups your chin, tilting your face upwards, and then she's kissing you, slow and deep and probing, as if searching for the truth of your words in your mouth. You tremble as she kisses you harder, as her kiss transforms into something more passionate, and she answers all your unspoken questions with her lips and her tongue and her teeth. When she pulls back, you're speechless and breathless, and she rests her forehead against yours, stroking her thumb across your cheek comfortingly. You struggle for breath as your heart pounds in your chest. You feel too much and not enough and Santana's too close to you for you to make any sense of any of your thoughts.

You're silent as you realize how utterly fucked you are.

You hear Santana release a shaky breath, and then her fierce, hot mouth is on yours again. You let her push you onto your back, and before you can even think about what's happening or who might be watching or whether this is really a safe thing to do, she's climbing on top of you, your mouths never parting, your lips seeming to fuse together with the crushing force of her kiss.

She pushes her body down into yours, and your hands automatically find her thighs, which are bracketing your hips. You know you should stop- you don't want to give all of Panem- your _father_- a show. You have no idea if Jesse is lurking in the shadows, waiting to make his move. You need to gather your senses. You need to be smart. You could be in danger.

But it's so hard to care about any of that with Santana's tongue in your mouth.

She moans against your lips, her fingers still tangled in your hair, and your hands take on a will of their own as they drag roughly up her thighs and you hold her hips. Your heart is pounding. Your pulse is racing. You're throbbing with need, and your thoughts are fuzzy. You should _stop_. But-

Santana pulls back, panting, and sits up a little. She looks glorious perched on your lower stomach. You can feel how hot she is between her legs, even through her pants, and the warmth makes your gut twist with want. Santana runs a frustrated hand through her hair and sighs.

"_Fuck_, Britt," she pants. "We can't do this."

You stare at her, mouth open, as you try and catch your breath. All you can do is nod dumbly.

You can't, but fuck_, you want to_.

* * *

You finish your dinner together in comfortable silence, though your pulse is still racing. You're not sure what to say to her. You don't want to talk about home; bringing it up might upset her, and you definitely don't want to do that. Your stomach sinks a little as you remember that you and Santana aren't exactly on friendly terms, and previously hadn't even had a conversation that didn't end with you upset at each other. You still know barely anything about her. You only know that you feel an irresistible, gripping attraction to her, that you're compellingly drawn to her.

You're both sitting together quietly, resting, when the Capitol Anthem plays. You look up into the night sky- only the District 7 boy you'd killed earlier appears. You clench your jaw and think about who's left- you and Santana, obviously. Quinn and Finn, and the girl from District 4- the cat girl. Jesse. Sam. The girl from District 7.

And Marley.

You smile. She made it another day. You wonder how the hell she's remained off the radar, but you can't help but be glad that she's lasted so long, even if it does hurt you to think about having to kill her. You spare a glance at Santana and your smile falls.

You have other problems to worry about.

After the very short ceremony in the sky, Santana sighs and rolls over onto her sleeping bag. She mutters a soft _good night_ and you lie awake, pulse racing, blinking at the stars and contemplating just how the hell you are going to win the Games, now.

* * *

You can't sleep.

Instead, you lie beside Santana, aching to be close to her. You want to hold her so badly your chest throbs, but she has her back to you. You wonder how she'd take it if you just scooted up behind her and pulled her close, if you just buried your face in the back of her neck and inhaled the scent of her hair and her sweat and the way her skin smells of wilderness. You wonder if she'd push you away if you slipped your hand low on her stomach and tugged her hips back into yours, if you fit your bodies together, if you pressed yourself to her back and melted into her.

Your heartbeat quickens, pounds, _aches_. You bite your lip, debating, holding your breath.

And then Santana whispers, "Britt."

And you shiver, breathing out, "Yeah?"

She turns to face you. Her eyes are dark. The low embers of the dying fire flicker in her brown depths, and she leans forward. Her mouth finds yours in the semi-darkness, slanting over yours as your lips slip together and her hot tongue strokes yours. A groan rumbles up from your chest and all at once your body is completely alive and tingling. Her hand slides, rough and possessive, over the curve of your hip, tugging you closer. You suck in a breath, your body shaking with emotion, your heart quivering beneath your breast. You feel overwhelmed with emotion, overwhelmed with feelings for Santana. You desperately want her closer, and it hurts you that you can't be.

Her kiss slows, and then she pulls back, her brown eyes searching yours. You're an open book. You give her everything, leave yourself unguarded, let her search you. After a moment, you see her visibly swallow, and then she lays her head on your shoulder, shifting into your side. Her arm stays across your chest and you wrap your own arm around her, holding her and listening to her breathing slow.

You close your eyes and try to hold onto this moment, and wonder how many more you'll have before the end.

* * *

You wake up with Santana still against you, and you've never felt more rested, despite the fact that your back aches a little. You're pretty sure you slept on a rock, but you can't find it in you to care- not when Santana's lips rest against your neck, her warm breaths tickling over your skin and making the hair at your nape stand on end.

It's early and a little chilly, but you don't feel cold with Santana's body heat against you. A gentle fog has settled over the area, giving the woods a serene, eerie look. The air is thick with morning humidity, and the fire has died. You know your first task is to gather some firewood.

You look down at Santana, who's still clutching you like a security blanket, and can't help but smile. You run your fingers through her hair, and she hums and shifts even closer. You kiss the top of her head, and her eyes slide open sleepily. She looks more peaceful than you could imagine someone in the middle of the Hunger Games to look, but you don't dwell on it.

As you extract yourself from her grasp, she settles back against her bedroll, offering you a drowsy- _adorable_- smile. Her eyes are still dark, and it sends a pang of adoration through your chest as she curls up into herself, her expression calm.

She knows you won't leave her. She knows you won't kill her.

She trusts you.

The weight of the realization sits heavy on your shoulders as you reluctantly climb to your feet to go scavenge for firewood, wishing instead that you could stay curled up with Santana. You don't go far. You already miss Santana's warmth.

As you gather kindling, you think about making it to the final two. If you and Santana manage to kill Quinn and all the others, maybe you could both just _stay_ in the arena. How long would it take for the Capitol to get bored with you coexisting peacefully? They'd send mutts of course, and hazards- sooner or later you would die, you're certain. But at least you wouldn't have to kill each other- or die by someone else. You could both just survive in the woods, as you've been doing, for as long as you can- _together_. It wouldn't be so bad.

Lost in your hopeful thoughts, you make your way back to the campsite, and as you round a tree, you drop your firewood in shock.

Santana's pinned to the ground beneath the blonde girl from District 7- you don't remember her name, only that it sounds like a boy's name- who's holding a small throwing axe to her throat.

At the sound of the wood hitting the ground, she looks up at you, and you hesitate, your stomach freezing with fear and doubt. Should you let her kill Santana? It would save you from having to do it, but-

Can you watch Santana die?

You remember the soft, trusting way Santana smiled at you just minutes before, and without thinking, you draw and throw your knife at the District 7 tribute. She twists and the blade nicks the side of her neck; then, with an enraged growl, she rises from her spot on top of Santana's chest and she draws her arm back. You watch the twist of her shoulder and quickly predict the trajectory, and when she throws the axe at you, you narrowly avoid it; it grazes your shoulder blade as it cuts past. _Fuck._

Boy's Name draws another, much larger, two-handed axe from a leather strap over her back and charges you, and you immediately dance out of her way, keeping your hands up, searching for an opportunity to get in close. You're currently unarmed; taking on a skilled tribute from District 7 is not the smartest thing to do in your current state. You quickly race through your options; Santana's sickle is on the ground near Santana, but you don't want to bring the fight back over to her. Your knife is gone. What else? You scan the surrounding woods and spot the small axe your opponent had thrown at you buried in the trunk of tree.

Perfect.

As the girl tribute swings at you, slashing a hole in your jacket, you dodge, duck, jump and lunge, keeping your mind focused as you nimbly and barely avoid her assault. You have to get over to that tree-

A hit to your stomach knocks the wind out of you, and you stumble back. The girl whacks you in the jaw with the butt of her axe, sending you sprawling. You hit the dirt hard. Vaguely you can hear Santana calling your name but your mind is fuzzy from the blow.

Boy's Name towers over you, raising her axe high to bury it in your chest. You hold your breath, listening, and when you hear her swing, you move, gaining another slice to your foot; it cuts through your boot, but misses your actual foot, though it's close.

Too close.

You scramble to your feet, tearing towards the small axe buried in the tree. You grip the sturdy, textured handle and pull, throwing all your might into it. It's stuck; you can hear Boy's Name moving towards you, and you twist away in time to avoid another hard swing of her axe.

You're getting really fucking tired of that thing.

You slam your heel into the side of her knee, and she shouts and crumples, but steadies herself on the long handle of her weapon, glaring at you. Knowing you have precious seconds, you slam your palm into the side of the handle of the throwing axe still buried in the tree, finally loosening it, and then tug it free, leaping back as Boy's Name comes at you again, though she's limping; you can hear her tiring. You know that axe is heavy, and she's probably not as well-nourished as you. Her breaths are shallow and ragged as she hefts her axe once more.

When she swings at you again, you meet her blow with your smaller axe; it's jarring, and not the brightest move; you're stronger than her, but the weight of her axe nearly takes you off your feet. Definitely not the best thing you could've done, but when you plant your boot in her stomach, it's worth it. She stumbles back and you don't waste time.

You throw your axe at her with as much force as you can muster; it makes a wet, sickening thwack as it lands in her wrist, messily severing her dominant hand.

Completely disabling her.

She shrieks in pain, bleeding severely. Her eyes are wide as she stares at the red stump where her hand used to be, shocked and terrified. With her dominant hand out of commission, she can't use her axe- though she feebly tries to lift it. You advance on her, ignoring the muffled sobs that have begun to work their way out of her throat. No mercy. Your shoulder still stings from her assault. She tried to kill you.

She tried to kill _Santana_.

Growling, you grip the handle of her axe, yanking it from her weak grasp. You grip the handle with both hands, and with one swift swing, you bury the blade in her chest cavity, cleaving her open.

She falls to the ground, lifeless, as the cannon sounds.

When you turn, Santana's there, kissing you fiercely, her tongue invading your mouth, her fingers rough as they yank on your hair tightly. You're relieved that she hasn't run from you, that she's not judging you for your ruthlessness, and you slide a hand to her lower back, pulling her closer as she steals your breath. When she pulls back, she glares at you. She's shaking.

"What the fuck was that?" she demands, angry, though you can hear the high note of fear in her voice. "What were you _thinking_?!"

You weren't.

All you could think about was how scared you were- how you couldn't let the girl from District 7 kill Santana. All you could think about was your own pain of loss, the sadness that gripped your chest at the thought of losing her.

All you could think about was how you can't bear to never see Santana smile at you again.

And that's when you realize- there can be no happy ending for you. You're a fool to think the Capitol would allow you to survive in the Games, even for a little while. Even if you won, you can't go home anyway- not now that you've allied with Santana, not now that you've _kissed_ her. Your father won't welcome you home. You have nothing- _no one_.

You're the one that has to die.

* * *

**Ahhh! **

**Okay, so. Next chapter there's going to be a lot more action- in more than one way, mwahahah. :D**

**Review if you feel like it. If not, catch you next time!**

**See you SOON!**


	10. Magnets

**A/N:** Hi, guys! Thanks for all your kind words and reviews. Definitely makes me happy to read your thoughts, predictions, and share in your excitement! Ahh! (Yes, it was Dani! Good guesses everyone.)

Got another intense chapter for you, and they're only going to get more intense as this story draws to a close, so hang in there! I promise we're working towards… well, something! XD

SUPER special thanks to my Kill Consultant, Lighthouse (**NegativeSpaces**) and my Wall, Dakota (**Perfectly Censored**) and also, special guest Dr. Willow (**SecretLifeofWords**) for helping me with the gore in this chapter and listening to me whine. They are the BEST! :D

Again, this chapter contains **graphic violence and death** and also some gross stuff, so… be careful!

Okay, well, on to it! :X

* * *

"You're an idiot," Santana grumbles as she inspects the cut on your back. You smile at her words. Somehow you know she doesn't mean them. Somehow you can tell that she's only saying them because she was worried about you, and the knowledge fills you with warmth.

The hovercraft has already swooped in to collect Boy's Name's body- after you'd pilfered her boot to replace the one she'd damaged. You aren't exactly the same size, but it's better than having a huge slice in yours, so you have to make do. With her body gone, there's no reason to break camp yet. You sit quietly as Santana gently cleans the shallow cut on your shoulder blade and applies pressure to stem the bleeding. She's extremely careful- loving, even- and you don't even feel the sting of pain as her strong, sure fingers administer aid to your shoulder blade. Though it's not severe or a particularly large cut, it's in a weird spot- and you're definitely not going to complain about Santana fussing over you. You wish you'd stop getting hurt.

You think Santana wishes it, too.

Once Santana's satisfied that your cut isn't going to start gushing blood at any second, she lowers your shirt back down, and gently strokes her fingers over your back. The sensation sends bursts of pleasure vibrating through you, and you clear your throat as you get up and begin to pack. Santana silently watches you for a moment, biting her lip, before moving to do the same. You try not to think about what that look means.

Since you'd decided the night before to confirm whether Quinn and her remaining two teammates had relocated or not, you set out in that direction. You feel light and happy as you move, taking in the sights and smells of the forest around you. Santana walks close by, and every so often you smile randomly at each other. Each time her eyes light up, it makes your heart skip a few dozen beats. You try not to let the impending weight of the future dampen your good mood.

As you're walking, you slyly pluck a flower from a tangle of plants. Then, you wait until Santana's distracted, and you move closer to her. When she notices you beside her, you silently present her with the flower and a gentle smile, and your heart flutters at the way her brown eyes seem to melt. She tries to pretend she's not flattered as she accepts your gift, but you can see the way a smile is tugging at the corner of her mouth, and you grin to yourself as you move back into your original position a few feet away.

You continue through the woods in silence. You don't really need to communicate. Santana is excellent at reading your body language, and she adjusts accordingly, reminding you, again, of magnets. It makes you feel giddy in the best way, despite your terrible circumstances. You're not thinking of those. You're only thinking of the girl beside you, the girl you wish you could be closer to.

When you hear steps nearby, crunching heavily over leaves and twigs, you freeze and duck, proud when Santana immediately mimics you without prompting. You slink quietly towards the sound, staying hidden behind trees and foliage, and peer through some ferns. You spot blonde hair.

Sam.

You grin. You'd _hoped_ you'd be the one to find him, though you're utterly confused as to how Jesse hasn't found him first. You can tell by his limping walk that his leg has worsened; he's tied a tourniquet around it, but he's in no condition to hunt or fight. Really, you'd be doing him a favor by killing him. He's obviously suffering.

You turn to lock eyes with Santana. She raises her eyebrows meaningfully, and you tilt your head towards Sam to indicate that you're about to go in and kill him. She lifts her sickle, offering, and you smile, shaking your head. Instead, you look up. You're going to surprise Sam with an ambush from the trees. He'll never see you coming.

Effortlessly, you reach for a branch and pull yourself up, watching as Santana casually circles around to get behind Sam and shepherd him to you. Your heart can't help but pound with admiration at how flawlessly she complements you. Maybe you really _are_ magnets.

You wait in the low branches, keeping your eyes on Santana. When she steps out from the brush and startles Sam, you smile wickedly, drawing your knife and crouching low.

"What-" Sam says, shocked. "I thought you were with-"

Santana shrugs. "Plans change, Trouty Mouth."

Sam draws a knife, but Santana clearly has longer reach with her weapon. She stabs it threateningly at Sam, who stumbles on his bad leg, keeping his knife pointed at her. His hand visibly shakes, and you can see the smirk on Santana's lips as she advances, sending Sam teetering closer to your tree. You grip your knife tightly, waiting. Just a few more steps-

"Get back, or I'll kill you!" Sam threatens, but his voice wobbles with fear, and Santana rolls her eyes.

"_Clearly_."

Your heart pounds with conflicting emotions. First, anger that Sam would _dare_ to threaten Santana. Second, arousal- because Santana's arrogance is somehow so _hot_-

Without warning, Sam lunges, and for the first time, you get to see how _good_ Santana is at what she does. She whips her weapon around and nails Sam in the head easily, sending him staggering to the left, and then, seconds later, stabs the pointed tip of her weapon into Sam's shoulder joint. He cries out with agony, and you wonder if you'll even _get_ to kill Sam- Santana might beat you to it.

Santana withdraws but stays close, keeping Sam cornered. She looks up at you expectantly through the leaves, a confident, challenging expression on her face. You smile at the fact that she's actually _challenging_ you, so you decide you're going to show off a little.

You lie down on the branch and then swing underneath it, wrapping your legs and arms around it and hooking your feet together. Then, carefully timing your move to put you right behind Sam, you let go of the branch with your arms, so that your upper body drops upside down and you're dangling by your legs. Your timing is flawless, as usual, and you wrap your left arm around Sam's head, keeping him from moving. He doesn't even have time to process what's happening as you draw your blade across his throat.

You barely hear the sound of blood spurting from his opened throat before the cannon drowns it out. You release him and he drops to the ground, and you grin. You bet Santana was really impressed-

"Are you fucking _kidding_ me?!"

Still hanging upside down from the branch, you find Santana standing, her arms out by her sides.

Drenched in Sam's blood.

She wipes at her eyes furiously, and you can't help but find the whole thing a little humorous.

"Are you fucking _laughing_?" she demands, spitting blood from her mouth.

"I'm sorry," you tell her in between giggles. "It _is_ a little funny."

"No, it's not!"

"It _is_," you insist, trying to stifle your laughs as you watch Santana shake her arm out. Blood covers her face and hair, drips down her neck, and spatters across the front of her jacket. She looks awful, but it's not like you _meant_ to get Sam's blood on her. You giggle while she fumes, glaring at you.

Then, she cracks the barest smile. "Your face is turning red."

You remember that you're hanging upside down, and you skillfully reach up and right yourself before unhooking your legs and dropping to the ground. When you stand, Santana smears her bloody hand over your cheek, and you dodge playfully, laughing.

"Let's go get you cleaned up."

* * *

Santana storms after you as you lead her to the brook at the mouth of a cave. You find it amusing that she's making such a fuss about a little blood- or a _lot_ of blood, actually, whoops- because it's not like she didn't cut out Noah's guts. You smile to yourself as Santana continues to mutter angrily behind you. You know she's making a big deal on purpose, and you have to admit, angry Santana is really, really hot.

When you reach the water, you turn to find Santana already sliding her jacket off, and your mouth goes dry. She reaches for her shirt and you feel your body responding, your pulse racing faster than it did when you were about to kill Sam. You've seen her naked before, but that was _days_ ago, and her kisses and close proximity haven't exactly helped quell your desire for her. You turn away and try and swallow, your throat feeling tight.

"I'll keep watch," you stammer, taking a few steps away from the edge of the water, feeling like your skin is crackling with tension. You're desperate to put space between you and Santana- you're already having a hard enough time keeping your hands off her.

"Mmhm," Santana says slyly, and you squeeze your eyes shut briefly as you hear her clothes drop to the ground and try not to imagine all of her smooth, tan skin suddenly exposed. You take a deep breath and let it out slowly, concentrating on listening for any approaching attackers, and not on the fact that Santana is currently naked behind you- naked and _wet_.

Without meaning to, you remember the way Santana had bravely faced Sam. You remember the sharp tone of her voice, and the way she carried herself so confidently. You still aren't used to seeing her so capable, but she killed Noah and escaped Quinn all on her own, and you have to admit, you find that incredibly attractive. You thought she'd be a lot more reluctant to take on Sam- didn't she tell you that she had a hard time killing people?

Then again, Sam _volunteered_, like you. Like Finn and Quinn. Santana probably didn't feel bad about taking him out because she knew he was a ruthless killer. So why can't she kill _you_?

Her feelings are still a mystery, though the way she looks at you and smiles at you- she _has_ to feel _something_. You just don't know what it is. You wish you did. You wish you could read her mind and know what she's thinking. You wish you could just _ask_ her. You wish you weren't so bad at having emotions. You're not used to being an amateur.

Your thoughts race as Santana washes and you keep watch. You want to look at her, to drink her in, but you know as soon as you do, you won't be able to look at anything else. You won't be able to _stop_, and Santana's trusting you with her safety, trusting you to be honorable. You clench your jaw and resist the pull, feeling like an idiot. Surely you can handle just one look, right? It's not like you've never seen her before-

Guiltily, you steal a glance over your shoulder, and find Santana standing with her back to you, rinsing off her jacket. The water reaches just below her ass, and sunlight sparkles off the drops that drip down her spine. Your stomach twists. You want to go to her so badly, but you force your feet to ground you where they are, and you're suddenly struggling to breathe. What are these emotions? Your chest feels tight and heavy and your hands shake. You've never felt such a commanding attraction to someone. It's almost like it physically hurts you to resist, and you don't know why you feel so powerless around her.

You bite your lip and ignore the splashes of water that continue to torture you with the knowledge that Santana is standing a few feet away, completely naked. You stare hard at a tree and make yourself not think about the way your fingers filled her days ago. You try to block out the memory of her breathless moans, and the way her mouth tasted when she came. You try not to remember the way her thighs clenched around you, the way _she_ clenched around you, the way-

"Britt…"

You suck in a sharp breath as Santana's hand touches your shoulder. You feel a tremor travel through your body at the contact and you mentally berate yourself for being such a pile of mush around her. You turn, and your stomach drops when you see that she's still completely naked, dripping wet. You watch her throat move as she swallows, and you want nothing more than to sink your teeth into her delicate neck and feel her shudder for you. The thought makes you ache between your legs, and your hands twitch.

Santana lifts her other hand to show you she's holding a damp cloth. You glance at it, then at her face, which is mostly clean, but still harbors a few smudges of dirt and streaks of blood. Wordlessly, you accept the cloth and use it to gently wash her face. You cup her jaw with your left hand and slowly scrub away the grime with your right, careful not to press too hard, _careful_. You've never been careful with someone before, and even though you know that Santana is tough and confident and capable of taking care of herself, you want to take care of her, you want to be careful with her. You cradle her face gently, and her brown eyes watch you study her face. For some reason, it feels more private, more intimate than anything you've experienced with her so far, and all you can hear is the pounding of your heart and the way your breathing complements Santana's shaky breaths.

When you finish, you let the cloth drop to ground and cup her face with both hands. Then, you lean forward and slowly kiss her nose, then her cheeks, her forehead, her chin, and end with a kiss to her lips. She tilts her head and deepens it immediately, reaching up to grip your wrists, sliding her fingers along your forearms and making you shiver at the bare touch. Her tongue teases along your lips, and you kiss her harder, feeling breathless, feeling as if your heart might punch through your ribcage.

Your thoughts race as your brain punches you with the reminder- _again_- that Santana is still completely naked. You pull back, panting, and stroke your thumbs over her cheeks, searching her eyes, which are both dark and bright; you think you might be able to spend forever trying to figure out the nuances of her eyes, but you don't have forever.

You only have now.

You press one more soft- but burning- kiss to her lips before you breathe, "Get dressed."

She nods, and you force yourself to turn back around and give her some privacy, trying to ignore the way your heart sinks, but just like with everything else you try and tell yourself not to do, you can't.

* * *

Once Santana's dressed and you take your turn, quickly washing your face and arms, you begin the walk back down the mountain in the direction of Quinn's possible camp. As you make your way down the gentle slope, over rocks and fallen branches, you steal glances at Santana, wishing you could be closer to her. The magnetic pull hasn't ceased, and you ache to hold her hand. You wonder how she'd react if you just reached out and grabbed it. Would she glare at you? Would she pull away? Would she frown and remove her hand from your grasp? The uncertainty makes your stomach flutter, and you resist the urge.

Then, as you move closer to her to avoid a low hanging branch, your fingers brush hers. It sends tingles through your entire arm, and you quickly move to put space between you-

Except she grabs your hand.

Your heart leaps into your throat, but when you look at her, she's looking straight ahead. You don't hesitate; you lace your fingers together and squeeze her hand, fighting back a grin, your whole body vibrating with tension and excitement. Her palm is warm and clean, her fingers soft. Her thumb strokes the back of your hand quickly and sends butterflies to your stomach.

After another ten minutes of walking, you pause to ask Santana if you're going in the right direction. She shrugs.

"I'm not even sure where we _are_, Britt. It's at the base of the mountain near the edge of the arena, so obviously if we keep heading down, we'll run into it, right?"

You smile at her logic. You suppose it makes sense. All the same- "Why don't we climb up and see how close we are?" you offer, dropping your pack at the base of the nearest tall tree. "The last thing I want to do is stumble into Quinn."

You're not joking about that- running into Quinn and her team would be fatal. You know all three of them will be heavily armed, and you only have a knife and a spearhead you haven't fashioned a shaft for yet. You resolve to do that as soon as you and Santana make camp tonight.

Santana shrugs again, shooting you a smirk, and leans her sickle against the tree as well, leaving her pack next to yours. Then, she hoists herself easily up into the tree, and you're struck again by how independent and capable she is. Somehow, you didn't expect her to be so strong and athletic, but you _like_ it. You follow suit, climbing right behind her, and when you reach a good height, you scan the surrounding woods.

"We're still a ways off," you say.

Santana shakes her head in disbelief. "This arena is _huge_. We could wander around for days and not run into anyone- there's only five of them left, right?"

You consider her words. Jesse, Quinn, Finn, Kitty, Marley… that's it? That's all that's left?

It sinks in suddenly that it's nearing the end. You could actually win the Games. And then what?

You look at Santana, who's quietly lost in contemplative thought, staring out over the arena. What happens if you make it to the final two? It might actually happen. You've always thought you'd make it to the end, but now things have changed. Now you're not even sure you want it anymore- not if winning means losing Santana. Not if winning means Santana is _dead_.

You stare at her, at all her beauty, at her dark eyes and hair, at her flawless skin. You remember her smile, the way she looks at you. This _can't_ be the end of that. It already hurts so much to be near her- what will it be like _without_ her?

Without thinking you move closer and crash your lips to hers, pressing her back against the trunk of the tree. She releases a surprised moan but kisses you back, tangles her fingers in your hair. You press yourself closer, balancing on the wide branch you're standing on, steadying yourself with your left hand on a higher tree limb. You kiss her fiercely, bite at her lip, conquer her hot mouth with your hotter tongue. You suck on her lip until she whimpers but she doesn't push you away.

And you don't resist the pull anymore.

You have a minute. You're safe for now. You don't know what's going to happen in the future- you can't think about that. You know the world is watching, that there's probably cameras filming you right now, but you don't care. You're past that. Your secret's out, anyway. You only hope the camera will cut away and show footage of someone else- there's five other people in the arena they could broadcast. If they have any _sense_, that is-

But again, you're past caring. Why would you care- when you've already accepted your death? Why would you care- when you have nothing, no one? You vaguely wonder if you ever had anything to begin with, but you don't want thoughts of District 2, or your family, or _anything_ to taint this moment. None of it matters.

There's nothing. Nothing except Santana and this moment.

You reach for Santana's belt and unbuckle it quickly, fumbling a little in your desperation. She doesn't stop kissing you, doesn't resist as she leans heavily against the tree trunk. She holds onto you tightly, and as you slow your kisses down, kissing her chin sloppily as your fingers finally slip past her barriers and reach her wetness, you guide her hand on your shoulder to a nearby branch, encouraging her to hold onto it instead as you stroke deep inside her. Her thighs shake and she releases a heavy breath.

You move your mouth to her neck, keeping yourself close. You breathe in her scent and close your eyes, and lose yourself in the warm, wet feel of her, the way she tightly envelopes your fingers. You lose yourself in the whimpering moans she releases as you move inside her. You lose yourself in the fresh, woodsy smell of her still-damp hair, and press your lips to her warm neck. You bite and suck there, and as her hips begin to rut against your hand, fumbling your rhythm- and she gasps your name- you feel an electric shock vibrate down your spine and you drive your fingers in, hard and claiming, and it's enough.

(It will never be enough.)

After she comes, you just hold her, breathing in the air for long moments. She giggles a little, grinning at you, and you smile back as she kisses you, sluggish and so much warmer than before. You meet her eyes, and they sparkle, and even though you could've just shared that moment on national television, you feel as if you just shared a private secret, and you hold her face, resting your forehead against hers as you both giggle giddily.

And then you hear it-

Thunder.

You lift your head and turn to the right, noticing dark storm clouds that literally appeared out of nowhere. Your stomach sinks, but your heart gives a leap. The Capitol must not have liked your show, but that only makes you feel more certain that what you did with Santana was right. You're going to die anyway. Why shouldn't you do what you want?

You hear the rain approaching in the distance and you sigh. A drop hits your hand-

And _burns_.

Acid.

_Shit._

It takes two seconds for you and Santana to break apart and quickly scramble down the tree. You don't need to tell her where you're going- the only place safe from the rain is the cave, back where you came from. You might be able to outrun the rain. You can't recall any rain in that area of the arena, and you know that different hazards are assigned to different areas-

You jump the last few feet to the ground and snatch up your pack and Santana's. She lands seconds after you and you toss her her weapon, and then you're both tearing through the forest. Santana keeps up easily, and despite the fact that your heart is racing with adrenaline, you also feel pretty elated.

You dodge trees and low branches, competing against the rain, dashing over dead leaves and leaping over fallen logs. It's exhilarating and you're still pumped from being with Santana. Climbing up the mountain has your calves burning a little, and you're still pretty far from your destination when you hit a clearing and your elation ends.

Because in your path is Quinn, Finn, and Kitty.

* * *

You freeze immediately, but they've already spotted you. The first thing you do is drop your pack to the ground, draw your knife, and assume a fighting stance, all in one expert movement. The second thing you do is shoot a glare to Santana.

"Run," you tell her lowly. "I'll hold them off."

She laughs at you, and your heart aches with too many emotions as she drops her own pack on the ground next to yours and readies her sickle. "Cute, Britt. Real fucking cute."

You don't want her to die. Not like this. Not at _all_. But you also know there's no way you can fight off Quinn, who's armed with a bow and probably multiple knives; Finn, who's levelling a sword at you; and Kitty, who's raising her trident, by yourself. In fact, you're certain that not even you _and_ Santana can take all three of them-

You tighten your grip on your knife. Quinn is the most lethal with her bow. You _have_ to take her out first, or-

On your left, Finn doesn't waste time. He stabs at you with his sword, making you jump back. On your right, Santana engages Kitty. You hear both of them let loose enraged cries as their weapons clash. You focus only half of your attention on fighting Finn, watching Quinn out of the corner of your eye. She reaches behind her and draws an arrow from her quiver, and you feel your stomach drop with fear- not for you, but for-

"You could've allied with us," Finn smirks, swinging at you, and you barely dodge it. He's fast, and you remind yourself that he scored an 10 in training-

"Somehow I feel like I'd still be having this fight," you answer emotionlessly. He glares at you, and you watch his chest, predicting his next swing. It's a downward cut, and, timing your counterattack, you deflect his blow and send his swing into the dirt, leaving him open on his right side. You move in and nail him in the kidneys with your fist, and he sputters, elbowing you out of reflex. You're able to avoid a direct blow, but it still manages to knock into your bicep- you know there'll be a bruise there later.

You glance at Quinn and find her taking aim at you from the edge of the clearing, and you quickly circle around, putting Finn between yourself and her to throw off her clear shot. Finn charges you and you move in close to him, catching his sword with your knife almost at the hilt, and you punch him in the throat, making him stagger back again, coughing. You spare a glance at Santana and find her holding her own with Kitty, and your heart swells with pride, even though you have nothing to do with her skills. You catch Quinn just in time to see her loosing an arrow and you dance out of the way; the arrow zips by you and embeds in a nearby tree, and you're reminded that you need to take Quinn out- _quickly_.

You barely take two steps before Finn's engaging you again, and this time, his sword nicks the back of your hand, just enough to draw blood. You're torn; you need to get Quinn first, but you can't because Finn-

"Just give up, Brittany," Finn tells you angrily. He's not out of breath yet; neither are you, but you know this fight could go on forever, and you don't have time, not with Quinn taking aim again-

A shriek of pain draws your attention to Santana, and you find Kitty gripping her thigh, which is bleeding. The sight of Santana winning her fight invigorates you; you turn back to Finn just as he's bringing his sword down on top of you.

You catch his blow with your knife- not the smartest move, _at all_- but he's bigger and stronger than you, and your arms shake as you struggle to keep his sword from advancing, from slicing into your flesh. You push upwards, your muscles tense and screaming from exertion.

"Give up," he taunts through his gritted teeth.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see the flash of Quinn's arrow before she lets it fly, catch a glimpse of her smirk as she releases the string, and you have barely a second to process; you try to move your body, try to-

You _feel_ the arrow as it sinks into you, tearing through skin and muscle and embedding deeply near bone, near ribs, and your body jerks from the momentum, from the shredding pain-

But you _can't move_. All you can do is suck in a sharp, excruciating breath, because Finn's sword is still bearing down on you, and your arms are rapidly tiring, trembling as you struggle to keep him from cleaving you in two. He kicks at you, and finally, with the shift of his weight, you find an opportunity to break away from him, gasping.

Searing pain shoots through you, radiating from the sight near your kidneys where Quinn's arrow is still buried. Every breath makes your body feel like it's on fire. Blood trickles from the wound, tickling your lower back, but you know it's not fatal. You can feel where it's hit your lower rib, preventing it from penetrating deeper, from doing more severe damage. You won't die from this-

Another arrow grazes your left shoulder, cutting into your skin.

-but you _will_ die if you don't get out of here. You look up, curious as to why Quinn missed you- because she's a much better shot than _that_- and you find Santana standing next to her, wrestling Quinn's bow away. Quinn glares, her eyes wide and frenzied, and she claws at Santana, who stands her ground despite Quinn's nails raking viciously into her forearms. They both tug at the bow, and then, with a mighty shove, Santana sends Quinn tumbling onto her back, and Quinn lets loose a scream of rage as she lands hard. A quick scan of the small clearing reveals Kitty on the ground, but you haven't heard a cannon. Is she dead? Did you miss it? Or-

Finn, momentarily just as flabbergasted at the sight of Santana taking Quinn out as you are, snaps out of his stupor and squares off with you again, though he looks a lot more wary. You ready your knife, your ribs aching. You can feel the shaft of the arrow scrape against your bone when you breathe, and it's _agony_.

When Finn stabs at you again, you shift to the left and kick the inside of his knee, and he wobbles, sinking down onto his good knee. Once he's down, you bring your fist up, ready to plunge your knife into his chest, but he doesn't give you a good opening, and his arms are longer than yours.

"At least I can still take _you_ out," Finn says confidently, despite his inferior position. "I'll deal with that sick bitch later."

You feel your anger spike at his words, at the way he talks about Santana. If you didn't want to kill him before- which, you most definitely did- you _really_ want to kill him _now_. You tighten your grip on your knife-

But then, the flat side of Santana's sickle hits the back of Finn's head- _hard_- and he slumps, hitting the dirt. "I look _forward_ to it, asshole," Santana seethes before turning to you. "It's time to get out of here," she tells you. She has both of your bags over her shoulder, and she reaches for you, her expression softening as she spots the arrow protruding from your ribs. "Oh, _Britt_…"

You wave her off, shaking your head. Now is not the time. You need to leave. Finn's already gaining his bearings back, and you don't want Quinn to get another shot in.

Santana leads you out into the forest, away from the clearing, away from danger, and your head spins as you realize- she just saved your life.

* * *

When you reach a cave- not the original one you'd been heading for, because it was too close to Team Quinn, but a new one that Santana insisted she find- you sink to your knees in the relatively safe darkness, shaking. You've had severe wounds before, but something feels off about this one-

"You're lucky to be alive," Santana mutters angrily, and you know it comes from fear and worry. You swallow. Your wound is throbbing, burning even. You're not looking forward to what comes next.

Carefully, Santana helps you remove your jacket, then your shirt. The arrow hit you on the right side of your back, near the bottom of your ribcage, so you lay forward, bracing yourself on your elbows as Santana hovers over you. She inspects the wound in the beams of light from the air shafts that run to the surface, and as she digs the vial of antiseptic that came with her first aid kit out, you brace yourself, slipping your leather belt off and placing it between your teeth.

"I'm sorry," Santana tells you softly, and when she starts to dig the arrow out of you, you squeeze your eyes shut at the blinding, excruciating pain that sears through your nerves and makes them feel like everything in you is on fire. Your only coherent thoughts are that you're thankful she didn't try to wiggle it out slowly and that the arrow is quality material. You at least don't have to worry about the arrowhead detaching inside you.

As Santana begins to carefully maneuver the arrow back out with the aid of your knife, you feel sick with pain, a wave of nausea hitting you so hard you have to actively try and stifle yourself from vomiting. You can feel the smooth aluminum shaft as it slides out of you, and each millimeter sends a fresh wave of agony through you, making even your teeth vibrate with pain.

You try to breathe- though it hurts- through gritted teeth and your nose, feeling involuntary tears springing to your eyes. You try to hang onto Santana's low, soothing murmurs of encouragement. She gently rubs your lower back every so often, telling you, _almost done, Britt_, and then, with one last gentle tug, you feel the arrow pull free of your body.

You take a shaky, rattling breath, sharp pain shooting through you from your ribs. You try and tell yourself to get used to it, because all of your breaths are going to be painful for a while. At least you're not dead. It could have been-

"Britt," Santana says, barely audible, her voice hoarse and hollow. You turn your head to find her holding the bloody arrow in her hand, her eyes wide and disbelieving. She swallows thickly, and her eyes meet yours.

"This arrow," she whispers. "It's been-"

Her voice wobbles, and she pauses, shaking her head slowly- _apologetically_- and you feel your stomach tense; your entire body goes cold with dread.

_No._

"-poisoned."

* * *

**D:**

**OH MY GOD DON'T KILL ME.**

**More action in the next chapter as Brittana take on Team Quinn again, and possibly Jesse… and what about that poison, eh? **

**It's a race against the clock in the next exciting chapter! Review if you want to yell at me- I probably deserve it.**

**I'll see you guys soon! :***


	11. Sick

**A/N:** Woah! Hahah I see many of you are a little upset with Team Quinn- not that I blame you! Thanks for all the feedback. There were a lot of questions, but there are two things I would like to address before we get to the chapter.

First: why didn't Santana just kill Finn, Quinn, and Kitty? Well, many reasons, actually. We don't know that Santana didn't severely injure Kitty and Quinn- Brittany was a little preoccupied. Santana injured them to the point of disabling, but she didn't really have time to stand over them and repeatedly stab them until the cannon sounded. She saw that Brittany was wounded, so she followed her natural instinct.

Okay, okay, so why didn't she kill Finn? Two reasons, actually. One- Finn was _not unconscious_. He probably would have fought back, and again, Santana was more concerned with getting Brittany out of there. Second- Santana is not a trained killer. When faced with _fight or flight_ Brittany will choose _fight_ because she feels more comfortable doing that. However, Santana's reaction will always be _flight_.

Also, I'd like to point out that Santana's weapon is a _sickle_. I think you guys are imagining the grim reaper's death scythe, but that's not what it looks like, at all. It's a very thin blade used for _cutting_; it doesn't have the cleaving power of an axe or a sword, and there's no way she could've taken Finn's head off with it. If she tried, it would've lodged in his skull or vertebrae and then she'd have to wrestle it out while Finn attempted to kill her. It's true that Brittany could have killed him- but she's kind of struggling to _breathe_, so I don't think she'd think it was a good idea.

Which brings me to the second thing I'd like to address. Archery Anon mentioned that you should never pull an arrow out, and in _today's_ setting, I agree completely. You should never pull any foreign item- an arrow, a pen, a metal stake- out of your puncture wound, for two important reasons- first, that it might cause more harm on the way out, and second, that it might have severed an artery or something, and it being there is actually blocking said artery from spewing blood everywhere and killing you. You have no way of knowing.

So, if you get punctured in real life, leave the item- an arrow, a pen, a metal stake- in the wound and immediately go to the hospital so that trained professionals can _surgically_ pull it out. ;)

However. There is no hospital in the Hunger Games, nor is Santana a surgeon, and even if she was, she doesn't have any surgical tools beyond a knife she used to cut the entry hole a little bigger. So Brittana really had no other option.

I'd like to also point out here to Archery Anon that I don't just shove shit in my stories to make it sound cool; I did a lot of research on arrow removal in medieval times and during the Expansion of the West before I wrote the scene. But since this isn't a hospital fic, I didn't detail the actual procedure Santana did to remove it, only what Brittany felt. Hopefully that clears up some of your doubt…. But if not, I'm also state certified as a First Responder in first aid, so, while I'm not an expert, I do know a thing or two about treating injuries... ;) (though I do take some liberties considering this is a fictional story.)

Okay! Whew! Sorry I talked so long! Again, thanks to Lighthouse (**NegativeSpaces**) and Dakota (**Perfectly Censored**) for being awesome and listening to me complain about stuff and stuff. They're the best!

We're there, folks!

* * *

With the arrow removed, Santana immediately puts pressure on your wound, and you grit your teeth as a new wave of sickening agony ripples through you. She apologizes quietly, and, once she's satisfied your bleeding has slowed, she leaves you for a moment while you try- and fail- to catch your breath, your ribs stinging sharply. When she returns, her hands are free of your blood and she sets to work building a small fire at the mouth of the cave. It strikes up immediately and you mumble your protest, concerned about giving away your location, but she quiets you gently but firmly.

"But, Quinn-"

"Should _probably_ worry about her _own_ well-being at the moment," Santana says calmly, and her tone soothes the panic rising in you. "She won't be coming after us anytime soon- I _hurt_ her."

"And _Jesse_-"

Santana feeds the small flame. "He doesn't know you're injured, Britt. He won't show his face."

You don't argue; instead you swallow, your breath still shallow and short, trying to remember the brief flashes of the fight you were able to see. You were preoccupied with Finn-

"Why didn't you kill Finn?" you blurt suddenly. You try and find Santana's face, but you're angled away from her and it hurts to move. You don't want to antagonize your bleeding.

"You were injured," Santana says, nonchalant. "I had no way of knowing how badly-"

"But you could've killed him, and-"

"And _then what_, Brittany?" Santana demands, her voice growing sharp and high with fear and anger. It startles you. You feel a wave of nausea pass through you, and you clench your fist weakly. "Win the Games?" She laughs disbelievingly. "Like it's that easy?"

You shake your head slowly. "It _is_ that easy," you say hoarsely. "You could've killed Kitty-"

"She'll be dead soon, regardless," Santana mutters, digging into her first aid kit. She emerges with a needle and a tiny ribbon of thread. "No way is she coming back from what I did to her."

"And then took out Quinn," you insist.

"And then let Finn kill you," Santana mocks as she sterilizes the needle in the fire flame- not that it matters much. "_Simple_."

"I'm going to die, anyway," you say softly. "Why can't you accept that?"

Santana pauses, turning her intense, dark gaze on you. She stares for a long moment, her eyes becoming a little glassy before she shakes herself out of it. "Because you're not going to die," she says fiercely.

You wish you could believe her.

* * *

"You're good at that," you comment idly as Santana finishes stitching your wound closed. You wish you could watch her, but the location of your injury makes it impossible for you to see what she's doing. You only feel her warm fingertips pressing softly against your cool skin every so often, and the sting of the needle. As she'd worked, you'd tried to focus on the tiny pricks of the needle entering your skin, and not on the sharp pangs of pain in your ribs every time you draw a breath, nor on the burning sensation still prevalent near the arrow's entry point due to the poison.

"We have a lot of accidents in District 9," Santana says gently, tying a knot in the thread. "Sit up, Britt." You do as she says, wincing at the ache in your side. Santana had cleaned your wound- _that_ hurt like a bitch- then quickly and neatly closed it in a very efficient amount of time, and you'd be lying if you said you weren't impressed. You wonder if Santana will ever stop surprising you.

She dresses the sutures in your back, then wraps a clean, white bandage around your midsection to hold it in place. Once she's satisfied that your arrow wound is sufficiently taken care of, she attends to the slice in your shoulder from Quinn's second arrow, then checks on the cut in your back, and the one on your forearm, and you didn't realize you were such a mess. Santana scolds you fondly, and you know it's to distract both of you from the fact that poison is steadily making its way through your body- making its way to your _heart_. You don't know how long you have before it takes over completely; maybe a day.

You watch Santana roll out her sleeping bag and strip her jacket, arranging it like a sort-of pillow, and your heart thumps dully. You're touched that she's going through so much trouble for you, but you wish she wouldn't waste her energy. She _must_ know that you don't have much time. She must know that you'll be dead in a matter of days.

You wonder if she'll stay with you until the end.

You don't want her to waste time hanging around, but you're suddenly terrified of dying alone. You can't ask her to stay with you, though, can you? That would be selfish, and she's already done so much-

Gentle fingers stroke through your hair, and you tremble, feeling fear grip you at the thought of losing Santana. You can't bear to die alone, but you can't bear the thought of her dying, too. She can't lose the Games- she _can't_.

Santana bends to press a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead. "C'mon, Britt," she murmurs, her lips brushing your skin. You relish her warmth, her nearness, her fingers in your hair. You shut your eyes and try to draw a deep breath, wincing at the stabbing pain in your midsection, and let Santana help you over to her sleeping bag. You lie on your stomach, wheezing, and Santana gives you a pained look, crouching beside you.

"I'll be right back," she promises, setting your knife beside you as a precaution. You nod, feeling exhausted, but terrified for a myriad of conflicting emotions. You don't want to be selfish, you don't want to keep Santana with you. But-

You watch her stand and leave the cave.

And you hope she doesn't come back.

* * *

When you wake, you're immediately aware of the smell of something cooking, and you're at once disappointed and relieved that Santana returned. You know you should be hungry, but your stomach churns. You still feel sick, and your head has started to ache; a low, persistent throbbing has taken up residence in your temple, adding to your list of pains. The sun has started to lower from what you can glimpse of the deep colors in the sky outside the cave, and the sight is a reminder that you're running out of time.

"You're awake," Santana comments, offering you a soft smile.

"You came back," you tell her dully, and Santana frowns, her eyebrows furrowing in worry.

"I told you I would," she says.

You try to swallow the bitter taste in your mouth, feeling your throat constricting with emotion.

"Hey," Santana starts gently, suddenly by your side. She strokes her fingers over your cheek, and you selfishly lean into her touch. "Did you not think I would come back?"

You avoid her eyes. "You shouldn't have."

Santana doesn't answer. Instead, she says, "I caught supper. Are you hungry?"

You're not. You have no appetite. But the thought of Santana out in the woods, hunting for you, stirs something in your chest, and you can't turn her down. You nod. She smiles, and she returns to the fire to bring you a portion of whatever it is.

You sit up painfully and force yourself to eat- it's some kind of small animal that you don't recognize, but the meat is oily and dark and reminds you of a small bird your father had bought once for Capitol Week, the weeklong celebration of the generosity of the Capitol. You try not to think of the memory.

Santana offers you water and you drink thirstily, coughing when you inhale too sharply and pain stabs through you. "Shh, easy," Santana soothes, stroking your hair back, and you nod. She leans in and presses a kiss to your cheek before she tells you she's going to check your wound. You sit still as she unwraps your bandages and examines your stitches. She's silent, and you wonder what that could mean. The site still burns, despite Santana having thoroughly cleaned and disinfected it, but you know that's because of the poison.

"It looks better," Santana tells you, her voice thick and slightly hoarse, and you wonder if she's lying to you.

"Doesn't matter." You try to force a smile. "I have a day, maybe less. Right?"

"Britt-"

"_Right_?" you demand, harsher. Her silence is all the answer you need.

"I don't know what kind of poison it was," Santana says softly. "It could be-"

"Doesn't matter," you repeat. "Sooner or later, it will kill me."

"You don't know that," Santana argues, her voice wavering. "You could get sponsors, or-"

"No," you snap, turning, despite the intense pain, to look at her. You need her to understand. This is it for you. That no one is going to save you. You don't have any sponsors, and even if you did, you doubt your father, or your District, would allow you any help. You've disgraced them, haven't you? Santana's eyes are wet with tears, and your heart twinges, echoing the pain in your ribs. Your expression softens. "No, no one will save me," you say softly, reaching to cup her cheek. "I've made my _choice_, San." You stare into her eyes, watching them flicker with recognition, and it makes you realize it's the first time you've shortened her name.

She swallows. "What the fuck is wrong with you?" She demands, her voice wobbling with tears. One spills down her cheek and you ache to wipe it away. "You're not supposed to _save_ me. You're supposed to kill me and-"

"And we already established I can't do that," you tell her softly, miserably, staring down at your lap.

"You might've won the Games by now; if only-" She trails off, swallowing her tears; she rests her forehead against your shoulder, and you listen to her catch her breath. Her unspoken words- _if only you had killed me_- resonate in you.

"This can't last," she whispers against your shoulder before she kisses you there. "We can't both win the Games, Britt."

You swallow. You don't know what to say.

A cannon boom cuts through the heavy silence, and you smile weakly.

"One more down," you whisper.

Santana nods, her eyes filled with tears. You think about your own cannon. You wonder if the Gamemakers have it queued up and waiting. You wonder how Santana will react; for a moment you picture her face, and you imagine her odds when you're gone. That cannon must've been Kitty, so that means she'll only have four left. And it would've been three if-

"If you'd killed Finn when you had the chance-"

"_Jesse_ would take me out," Santana says firmly, reaching to replace your bandages.

"You don't know that."

"I don't _care_, Brittany, don't you see that? I don't _want_ to win the fucking _Hunger_ _Games_."

"What?" you ask, your eyes widening.

Santana chuckles darkly as she finishes with your bandages. "Not what you were prepared to hear, huh?" She shakes her head. "What's the big fucking deal? Say I win- _then_ what? I go home to my District- a District that _put me here_ to begin with- and live a life of solidarity, except for, oh, when they drag me out of my mansion every year to mentor some kids that are basically already dead? Is that what you wish for me?"

You swallow thickly. It isn't. It's not what you wish for _anyone_. Not for her, not for yourself. Maybe for Jesse-

But you've never thought of the Games like that. You'd only ever thought of the _glory_. You'd only ever thought of the parties in the Capitol, of the pride in having punished the lesser Districts and in doing your duty to the Capitol. You'd only ever thought of the riches and having whatever you wanted. Your tributes- the tributes of District 2- won more than they lost. It wasn't anything like the experience Santana just mentioned, and you feel ashamed that you never considered what the cost of the Hunger Games was for the lesser Districts.

You're ashamed that you've lived your entire life in ignorance.

"Why did you volunteer?" Santana asks, her voice so soft you wonder if you imagined it.

You feel your throat constricting as you think back to how proud you were to have your name called, and how it all seems like some cruel, sick joke now. You don't regret it, but at the same time, you wish you'd never met Santana. You wish you could go back to your old life; you wish you could go home to your family, to your _father_, meet some mediocre boy or girl who makes you feel half as alive as Santana does, and live out the rest of your life working in District 2, maybe as a mason. You'd never feel the insistent, undeniable pull of your magnet, never have to choose between a meaningless, lifeless existence or _actually being dead_, and you could watch the Games from a distance each year. You could _remain_ ignorant.

You blink, surprised at the tears in your eyes, and laugh bitterly at yourself. Because you _did_ meet Santana.

You can never go back to before.

When you find your voice, it wavers. "It was expected of me," you confess, reaching up to grasp your father's tags. You wonder what he thinks of you, revealing a side of weakness, revealing just how vulnerable you really are. Your whole life, you sought his approval, his blessing. Your whole life, you only wanted to make him proud, to earn his love. But now you realize that love earned in that way is just as easily revoked. Conditional. You don't want that for you.

You look at Santana and wonder if she loves you. You wish you had the courage to ask.

"I've trained in an Academy," you whisper. "Since I turned fifteen."

"Is that why you're so good?" Santana asks with a gentle smile, matching your tone and making your conversation intimate. She nudges your shoulder with hers, and you smile a little at her attempt to cheer you up, even though she was the one crying not five minutes ago. Your heart feels like it might explode with fondness and adoration for Santana.

You nod. "I was trained in every kind of weapon found in the Games; I studied the way people's bodies move. Everyone gives _tells_- a shift of their weight, a flinch, a twitch- and my Trainer says I'm just really good at reading them." You shrug, like it's no big deal- because it's not. You're not proud of your ability. You wish you were compassionate, like Santana. You wish you were _brave_ like her. She risked her life for you, and she hasn't been trained in an Academy.

Actually, she might have been. You don't really know anything about her life before the Games.

"You're staring at me," Santana points out bashfully, her cheeks turning the slightest pink, even under the complexion of her skin. It makes you smile.

"You're pretty," you say easily, as if that's reason enough. She blushes deeper, and you smile wider. "I was wondering what your life was like, you know- _before_."

"Well, I definitely didn't train in an Academy."

"But you're good."

"With a sickle," Santana shrugs. "And it's only because I have a life of practice using one out in the fields."

You want to know more, but you also don't want to touch on a potentially sensitive subject. "Will you tell me?" you ask, soft and encouraging. Santana smiles shyly, reaching up to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear. You wish you would have done it instead.

"Sure, though there's not much to tell," she says, and you're grateful for the distraction, for her willingness to help take your mind off of it- off the fact that it's agony to breathe, off of the fact that you're slowly dying and there's nothing you can do about it. "My father lives in the Capitol. See, my mother was extremely beautiful when she was younger-"

"I can see that," you say, and Santana shakes her head.

"Flirt," she accuses. She rolls her eyes a little, but you know she's flattered. "_Anyway_," she continues, "my father took a liking to her. I'm not sure how they met, maybe he was in charge of the grain export or something, I don't know. Never met the guy."

You feel sad. You already know Santana's mother died, but she never met her father, either? She really did have a rough life. And yet, she's so _brave_, and gentle with you, and-

"Mom got knocked up with me," Santana says. "And she lived until I was old enough to be sold into slavery at the mill. Then, I don't know. She was killed in an 'accident' but I think it was probably my father trying to cover up the shame and scandal. I guess he hoped I'd disappear into slavery, or die at the hands of Peacekeepers or something."

The mention of Peacekeepers is like a punch to your chest. You'd always respected and liked them. You remember Kurt's words when he'd dressed you in the Peacekeeper outfit, how he'd told you that the rest of the Districts would not be fond of you. And you remember Santana's anger at the sight of you in the outfit. A wave of nausea hits you hard and you struggle to stifle it.

Thunder booms, and you hear the distant sound of rain. The sound of it calms you, but you can't help wondering if the Capitol is trying to censor your conversation with Santana. You're definitely not talking about appropriate things, but it's not like you care.

"So that's it?" you ask softly. "You worked at the mill until you ended up here?"

Santana shrugs again. "Mostly." She hesitates, and you study her. If she worked at the mill and minded her own business, why would her District vote her into the Hunger Games? You know District 9 doesn't view participation as an honor like District 2, so-

"There was this girl," Santana starts, her voice low and rough. "Elaine. She was the Mayor's daughter. When he'd visit the mill, like to inspect it or whatever, she'd be with him."

You feel your stomach tense. You're shocked and honored that Santana is choosing to share such a personal part of her history with you, but you remember the way Quinn and Finn talked about it, and it makes you sick again.

"She seemed to like me," Santana continues, her voice so soft you have to struggle to hear it over the rain. "I'd catch her watching me a lot when they visited every couple of months. And then one day after a visit, she came to the mill _without_ him." You hold your breath.

"We… well." She shakes her head slowly. "It was fast; over before it started really. But every time her father visited, she'd visit me alone. It went on for months, until- until he found out." You let your breath out slowly. Santana laughs bitterly and you wait for her to continue. When she doesn't, you look at her.

"Then what happened?"

She smiles sadly. "I never saw her again. And a month later, my name got drawn in the Reaping." Without thinking, you creep your hand into hers, feeling overwhelming sadness for her and the circumstances of her life. You never imagined someone could experience such heartache and still turn out to be as wonderful as Santana is.

"Well, they'll all be shocked when you win," you say quietly, and Santana sighs.

"Britt…"

"Why did you ally with Quinn?" you ask, changing the subject.

Santana shrugs. "I thought it would be my best chance to survive. If I was with the Careers, then I wouldn't have to worry about them hunting me, at least, in the beginning."

"Careers?" you ask.

Santana blushes. "Oh, that's just- that's just what we call the tributes who volunteer, the ones who train their whole lives to be in the Games- like it's a _career_, you know? Like-"

"Like me," you state, smiling at her. She nods.

"Yeah, I'd say that's accurate."

You notice a stray lock of hair fall across her face, and this time, you don't resist the urge to reach up and tuck it behind her ear. Then, because you can't resist, you lean forward and kiss her, slow and deep, for long moments.

"Quinn asked me, anyway," Santana says when she pulls back, releasing a slow breath and playing with the fingers of your hand that she's still holding. "I think she only wanted me because she thinks you have some sort of attachment to me."

You freeze, and she looks up at you in that deep, soul-searching way that she has, and you swallow. You're not afraid to admit your feelings, but as you search her gaze for any trace of disapproval, you realize you don't have to. You both know the truth.

You wonder if Santana loved Elaine, but you're scared to ask. You wonder again if she loves _you_, and if she doesn't if she could love you, if the circumstances were different. Santana shifts beside you and leans her head against your shoulder, and you finally understand that there are things more important than winning the Games.

* * *

You snuggle by the fire until the Capitol Anthem plays. Kitty from District 4- you can't believe that's actually her name- is the only face in the sky. You're relieved that the day is over, but also very aware that your time is growing shorter. Your headache has intensified, and your stomach is churning severely, alerting you to the fact that you're probably not going to be able to keep dinner down for much longer. Your palms have broken out into a cold sweat, though Santana has refused to release your hand. You know tomorrow is only going to be worse.

However, instead of the normal silence that accompanies the end of the day ceremony, you're hailed with the loud sound of trumpets, and the familiar voice of Jacob-Ben-Israel, the popular Hunger Games announcer. He greets you, his unique voice blasting out over the arena, and your stomach tenses as you process his words.

"There will be a Feast at the Cornucopia, tomorrow at dawn," he tells you gleefully. "And if I were you, I wouldn't miss it- or you might live to regret it… or you might not live at all!"

You're climbing to your feet, stumbling to your knees outside of the cave just in time to double over, your stomach heaving up its contents. Your ribs scream at you in protest, and the intense wave of pain incites another round of vomiting. You're sick with emotion, with poison, with the thought of having to go back to that swamp to live, with the fact that Santana is going to try to go, and you _can't_, _you can't_-

You're vaguely aware of Santana beside you, pulling your hair back, stroking your back, soothing you with soft, encouraging words, and only one thought crosses your mind.

You can't let Santana go to that Feast, which means one thing-

You have to go, yourself.

* * *

**Come on, you guys totally saw that coming! I read the reviews, I KNOW, OKAY.**

**Sooo sorry, I had to split this chapter up because I got waaaay more involved with writing Brittana's dialogue than I planned, and I realized I had way too much action planned for the chapter and I didn't want to overwhelm you guys.**

**Review if you feel like it. See you guys really soon! :D **


	12. Careful

**A/N:** Hello, everyone! :D Hope you are all doing well. As you can see, I'm back with the next chapter of this story. I wanted to have it up yesterday, but, I got distracted with all the drama. Thanks so much to all of you reading, reviewing, favoriting, following, or whatever-ing. I appreciate you all!

I also appreciate Lighthouse (**NegativeSpaces**) for putting up with my bullshit. But what else is new?! LOL

Again, reminder that there's **graphic violence and death** in this chapter. BE CAREFUL.

Aiight, I'm done.

* * *

Once the trumpets announce the end of JBI's speech, Santana looks about as upset as you feel. You wonder what she's thinking, but you know that if it has anything to do with the Feast, she's not thrilled to be returning to that swamp, either. You wipe your mouth, grateful when Santana hands you the canteen of water so you can rinse the sour taste away. Then you let her carefully help you back to your spot by the fire while you try to steady your breathing and lessen the stabbing pain in your ribs.

You stare at Santana for a moment as she puts a few more sticks of kindling on the fire, feeling tears burning your eyes. You _can't_ let her risk her life for you more than she already has. If you can make it to the Cornucopia, even if you don't manage to secure whatever's waiting for you there, you can still try to take Finn or Jesse out, or Quinn-

"You're shaking," Santana breathes, touching her warm palm to your cool forehead. She gently strokes through your hair before cupping your face. You grab her hand and hold it tightly. Her eyes widen in surprise at the strength of your grip. "Britt-"

"_Promise me_ you won't go," you say firmly. She looks at you, studying your face calmly. She doesn't look convinced. "Promise me," you repeat.

"Can't do that," Santana says with a shrug, and you feel anger rising in you at her stubbornness. You've had just about enough of Santana futilely trying to keep you alive.

"Santana-"

"_No_," Santana cuts you off. "Am I supposed to let you go alone? What would be the point of that? I should just kill you myself and save you the trouble!"

"So do it then!" you challenge.

"If I could, I would!" Santana counters. "Can we stop talking in circles? You know I can't kill you."

"Then let me die," you plead. "_Please_. You're wasting time, and energy, and-"

"You already know why I do," Santana says harshly. "So again- can we stop talking in circles?"

You swallow. "But I can't let _you_ go up to that swamp alone."

Santana's quiet for a moment. Then, she says softly, "Who said I was going alone?"

You pause. Did you hear her right? At your puzzled look, Santana sighs.

"Look, Britt; you're deteriorating- _quickly_. Even if I did get that medicine- assuming it's even _there_- I'm not sure you'd survive long enough for me to make it back here after ensuring I'm not being tailed." She shakes her head doubtfully. "You're going to have to accompany me, otherwise there's just- no point."

You're silent while you let that sink in. Santana moves to the sleeping bag and removes her boots, then climbs inside of it. You sit, staring at the fire, and wondering why Santana can't just let you die- it's not like she has to kill you herself. Then again, you're kind of being hypocritical, because it's not like you can take her life, either, or watch her die. But you have feelings for Santana- that's why you can't do it. Does Santana feel the same way you do? Is that why she can't kill you?

"Britt," Santana calls softly, drawing you out of your thoughts. "Come here."

You turn to find her sitting up, waiting for you. Her dark hair spills over her shoulders, and you feel your mouth going dry at the soft brown of her eyes reflecting the firelight. "We should get a couple hours of sleep, before," she tells you as you move to lie next to her. She adjusts so that you're on your stomach between her legs, using her chest as a pillow. She runs her fingers through your hair, and it soothes your head a little, though it's still pounding unbearably.

Despite the burning pain, you're extremely comfortable lying against Santana. She's warm beneath you, and her fingers don't stop stroking your scalp, or softly rubbing your back, careful not to touch your wounds. You feel yourself becoming drowsy under her gentle, soothing touch, your limbs feeling heavy. You sigh, wishing you didn't have to ever move. You'd be content to die in Santana's arms, right where you are.

"If we make it to the final two," Santana starts in a whisper, her voice shaking slightly as she breaks the calms silence between you, "I- I promise I'll-"

You kiss her collarbone, letting your lips linger on her skin. The tone of her words conveys what she cannot voice out loud, but you understand her meaning, and you think you could be content with her promise. "Okay," you agree in a whisper before settling against her and letting your eyes slip closed. The certainty of knowing you will die- but not right now- both calms you and unnerves you. If you make it to the final two, Santana has to kill you. You have to live, now, to ensure she wins. You have to live, now, to ensure that you will die.

* * *

Your sleep is fitful. You're plagued by burning pain that seems like it's devouring your insides. Your stitches feel like they're on fire, and your lungs ache, struggling to deliver oxygen to your body. You know it's not from your ribs, but from the poison steadily shutting down your system. You shiver, feeling cold despite Santana's warmth and the warmth of the sleeping bag wrapped around you.

It's still dark out, and you know you couldn't have slept for more than a few hours. You wonder what time it is, if you'll have enough time to make it to the Cornucopia, or if you'll run into-

Santana leans forward and kisses the top of your head. "We should leave soon," she breathes, and you swallow. You know that she's worried that you're not going to be strong enough to make it to the Cornucopia if you don't make the trip soon. You try not to think about it, and instead, you push yourself up, gritting your teeth at the way your internal organs feel like they're twisting inside of you. Santana helps you to your feet, and you lean against the cave wall, gasping, as she packs the supplies into her bag and slips the straps over her shoulders.

"Ready?" she asks gently, cupping your cheek, and you nod again. She frowns, presumably at your pallor, and digs in her bag for a moment before producing a pack of crackers and some water. Your stomach churns and you shake your head, prompting her to sigh and frown again. Silently, she takes your left hand in her right one and leads you out of the cave.

You travel slowly, but quietly. You can't move too fast; your lungs are struggling enough as it is, and combined with the aching pain in your ribs and the burning sensation travelling throughout your body, each breath hurts worse than the last. You're starting to feel dizzy and disoriented, and you're grateful that Santana knows where she's going because you haven't the slightest idea where you are or which way is up.

When you reach the edge of the woods, Santana pauses to examine the sky. You don't risk trying to look up, afraid that the movement will make you dizzy enough to lose your balance, and instead, focus on Santana's hand in yours, squeezing it tightly and letting it ground you.

"We have some time before dawn," she whispers. "Let's rest here for a bit." She helps you to the ground, and you lean heavily against her, resting your head on her shoulder. She wraps her arm around you and plays with your hair. "Sleep, B," she soothes. "I'll wake you when it's time." You nod against her sluggishly, and your eyes slip closed.

When you wake again, Santana's encouraging you to stand, and then she's slipping her jacket off and coaxing you to put it on over your own. It's only then that you realize your teeth are chattering. You try to protest, because you know you and Santana still have to make it through the snow in order to get to the swamp, and you don't want Santana to freeze, but she shushes you as she tenderly zips her jacket- which is a bit snug- up. She fixes your collar to protect your neck, then takes your palm, gently placing your knife in it and closing your hand around the handle.

You swallow at the intimate, affectionate gestures, at how careful Santana is with you and how well she takes care of you, and clutch your knife weakly. Santana stashes her bag and yours beneath some bushes, then collects her sickle and takes your hand again, leading you up the mountain and into the dark, biting cold.

Despite your two jackets, you're shaking in seconds from the cut of the wind, which seems to have grown more brutal since the last time you were here, and you know the Gamemakers did that on purpose. The frigid air stings your lungs, and you exhaustedly wonder if your breathing will ever catch a break. Santana squeezes your hand, pulling you insistently forward, and when you reach the edge, Santana crouches, presumably to determine how safe your surroundings are.

All you can hear is the howling of the wind and the pounding of your head, so you have no choice but to trust Santana, who, after a few moments of observation, searches the ledge for a secure point to descend from. When she finds it, she slips over the side and silently climbs her way down. Her feet touch the sludgy bottom and you're reminded of the awful muck you had to wade through on the first day; your stomach turns. But you're shaking so badly you can barely hold onto your knife, and you know that the cold is not good for your already-weakened, slowed heartbeat, so you sluggishly drop over the side. Your arms trembling from exertion, and you're annoyed that you're having such difficulty performing a task that under normal circumstances would barely cause you to blink.

You're sweating by the time you make it to the water, but still shivering, and Santana touches your cheek fondly for a moment before she takes your hand again. The swamp looks eerie in the dark, and if you weren't already dreading coming back here, you'd definitely be unhappy about it after seeing it now. It's unnaturally quiet and still, especially since your ears are still ringing from the blasts of wind you'd experienced moments before.

Santana guides you to a fairly isolated spot hidden in shadow near a tree. Its roots arch high out of the water, giving you solid ground to stand on, and even tucked away against the tree, you have a pretty good view of the Cornucopia. Santana pushes you against the trunk and practically presses herself against you, and you feel lightheaded for an entirely different reason.

"I need you to cover me," she breathes, tilting her face up so that her lips brush against yours. "Can you manage that, Britt?" You nod, because you're not sure you can find your voice anyways and it's still a struggle to breathe. You lose your breath entirely, though, when Santana stands on her tip toes and kisses you, grabbing the collar of your jacket in her fist to bring you closer. The intensity of her kiss steals what little air you had left in your lungs, and when she finally pulls back, expression apologetic, you're panting. She presses one last, lingering peck to your lips, making your hands shake, before she moves away completely, and immediately you miss the heat of her, though you feel degrees warmer. Maybe she should've kissed you sooner.

You watch Santana slink away into the darkness, and wonder if it's the last time you'll get to kiss her. You tighten your grip on your knife.

And wait.

When the sun rises, so does the temperature, and you feel as if you're melting under two jackets, though you dare not risk taking one off. You know you still have to make it back through the snow. You scan the water for any signs of movement and strain to listen for the splashes of approaching _anything. _All you hear over your rasping breaths is the sounds of random insects awakening and birds whooping in the trees to each other.

In the distance, you can see six large silver parachutes drifting down over the Cornucopia, each of them with a large backpack dangling from it. In previous Games, you remember the Feast rising from the ground, but you suppose that would be hard to work out between the swamp water and the mountain. No sooner do the packs land on the large wooden deck surrounding the Cornucopia than you spot Santana dart out towards them, and movement on your right catches your eye-

Finn.

You push off from the tree and lunge forward to intercept him, your head throbbing with pain. You feel dizzy, but you focus hard on Finn's form, and it becomes apparent you won't reach him before he reaches Santana, who is only a few steps away from the Cornucopia. You pause to take aim, your vision swimming slightly, and throw your knife with deadly accuracy at Finn's advancing form.

Finn turns, lifting his arm to block the knife from hitting his head, and the blade buries into the center of his forearm instead. You curse, because now you're basically unarmed, as you watch Finn turn to you, glowering. He rips the knife from his arm, and blood runs in a river down, dripping from his elbow. You have only a second to think about what a moronic move that was and you half hope that maybe he'll bleed out, but then then he's twisting, throwing your own knife back at you.

You narrowly avoid a hit; the blade passes so close you hear it whizz by your ear. Finn draws his sword, still bleeding profusely, and you start to feel panic. You're weaponless, and with the exertion of throwing the knife, you're certain you've torn your stitches. Your equilibrium is off; you sway on your feet. You scan the area quickly as Finn moves towards you, laughing. You know all the supplies weren't removed by the Gamemakers, and there's no way Quinn could've shuffled all of the weapons out, so where-

There! A spear, leaning against a tree. You immediately move towards it, splashing into the water. Your legs feel like jelly but you force yourself to move, vaguely hoping you don't run into any of the crab mutts. Your stomach turns and you beg yourself not to be sick right now; you can't afford a delay. You need your adrenaline to keep you alive. You can be sick later.

You reach the spear with difficulty and turn to meet Finn, who looks a lot more wary now that you're armed, but still overly confident, still cocky as he approaches you slowly, cornering you. The spear is light- more for throwing, like a javelin- but it'll do.

"Brittany, you look awful," Finn crows, sounding rather delighted, and up close you can see the individual sweat drops that bead on his face. His arm is still bleeding, but you don't think he's that concerned about it.

"You _always_ look awful," you wheeze, your entire chest feeling like someone's beating it with a hammer inside- _everywhere_. You steady yourself. Your vision is blurring around the edges and everything seems delayed, but you will yourself to stand. You have a goal. You have to protect Santana.

Finn doesn't seem amused by your comment. "I'm really going to enjoy killing you," he sneers with a vicious smile, and you force a laugh.

"You'll never get to enjoy that." You take a step forward and stab, making Finn step back and give you enough room to step up out of the water onto a nearby plank, since the water is the last place you really want to be standing, let alone fighting. Finn swings at you and you easily evade him. You know you have the superior weapon, and that you're the superior fighter- but does he?

Judging by the smirk still on his face, you have your answer. Finn lunges forward, circles, tries to get inside your range, but even with poison slowly taking over your body, you dance around him easily. You could wield a spear in your sleep; in fact, you could be sleeping right now. Where is Santana? Surely she must have the bag she came for, unless she ran into Jesse or-

An arrow skims your boot and makes a low _thunk_ as it embeds in the wood near your feet. And suddenly, you're a lot more worried. You know where that arrow came from, and Finn's gleeful expression only confirms it. You panic briefly- if Santana gets hit, too, you're fucked. There's no way there's enough medicine for _both_ of you-

Finn circles to the right and stabs, and you decide you need to end this a lot faster. You swing your spear in a wide arc, catching Finn in the chest and gouging a deep line across his torso. He stumbles back, hissing in pain, looking far less cocky and a lot more pissed. A sharp pain in your side makes you wince and buckle a little; you forgot how thick the air is, and breathing is becoming a much bigger problem than you anticipated. Your throat, your chest, your stomach- _everywhere_ feels constricted. You ready yourself for Finn's attack, and he charges. You dodge and parry his swings, catching his thigh, his shoulder, his neck, but all are just glancing blows; he's relentless, and you're tiring rapidly.

He lunges at you again, and you thrust weakly. He knocks your spear aside and you brace yourself for the killing blow, but it doesn't come. His fist hits you instead, and you drop to your knees, gasping. You double over, trying to catch yourself on your hands, but your insides feel like they're being ripped apart. Your cheek hits the deck. You barely register anything except the excruciating pain of your organs.

In the distance, you can just barely hear Santana calling your name; you want to tell her to stay back, but you can't find your voice. Then suddenly you're being lifted in Finn's solid grip. His arms and neck are covered in blood, but he smiles at you.

"I'm going to rip you apart," he tells you, and you can't even find it in you to be scared- you already feel like you're being ripped apart. You blink, and when you open your eyes again, you notice a tiny dart in the side of Finn's neck. You don't recognize it. Where did it come from? Are you imagining it?

You feel on the verge of blacking out. You feel like you're falling. You think you hit the ground. Are you dead? You can't be dead- your insides still hurt. Someone's screaming. Is it-

A cannon booms.

"Britt." Santana's voice is sudden and sounds far away. You vaguely feel her on top of you, shaking your shoulders. You can smell her, all sweat and blood and- "Britt, we have to go; _please_."

Go? Okay.

With Santana's help, you force yourself to get up. You have no idea where you are. You kind of feel like you're in a dream. Santana's arm is around your waist, supporting you, keeping you upright. She shoves something into your other hand and you hold it obediently. It takes you a few moments to realize it's your spear. You feel better, more confident holding it-

Until another arrow lands in the tree beside you, barely missing you. Barely missing Santana. You turn, ignoring Santana's protests, and follow the arrow's trajectory. Quinn must be in a nearby tree, but which one? You study them briefly, your head pounding, and decide based on climbing leverage and position that there's only one likely choice, but your vision is too blurry for you to pinpoint where Quinn is in the tree.

You don't care. You can't climb with this spear, anyway. You pull your arm back and then hurl the spear as hard as you can towards the tree. It doesn't hit Quinn, but she loses her balance avoiding it and falls, landing with a splash in the sludgy water.

"Her aim is off, I crippled her shoulder the last time we met," Santana tells you lowly, sliding her arm around you to support you again. You sag against her, wheezing. "But I don't want to risk fighting her. Let's go."

Your wound aches- you definitely tore your stitches and reopened the wound. You can feel that the blood has soaked through your bandage and is dripping down your back, but you're not sure you care anymore. Santana's safe. You steal a glance at her and notice she has your bag and hers slung over her shoulders. _And_ Finn's. You can't help but smile. You wonder who else there is; you know Jesse and Quinn are still out there. And Marley-

Your stomach turns and you can't squash the urge anymore. You stop to throw up, sinking pathetically to your knees in the water. It hurts too much to double over, and when you finish, you're gasping for breath. You wonder if every single one of your ribs is broken as Santana helps you back to your feet, guiding you to the rock wall.

When you reach it, you have no idea how you're going to make it up that thing. You reach for a handhold, and Santana helps you climb. She's strong- you had no idea how strong she was- and she half pulls, half pushes you up the wall.

You're completely out of breath and shaking by the time you make it over the edge and collapse into the snow. You feel exhausted, drained, and the numbing snow doesn't help you. You wonder what would happen if you just didn't get up. If you just let yourself go here. Santana would win, and you wouldn't have to worry about how you were going to die. She wouldn't have to kill you. Happy ending. This isn't so bad. It's peaceful. And-

Strong hands tug you up, and Santana's voice reaches your crazed mind.

"Britt, please; just a little farther, okay?"

You nod dumbly and she escorts you down the mountain. You trudge, tripping on snow, stumbling over rocks, but Santana's there to catch you, her hands steadying on your shoulder and lower back. Your shaking doesn't stop when you make it to the forest, when Santana guides you to a relatively safe spot. As soon as she releases you, you crumple against some rocks. The hard, rough surface stings your palms. Your forearm is red- you thought you healed that already, but-

"Brittany," Santana calls. She sounds far away again. Farther than before.

You try to answer her, but your tongue feels swollen and heavy. You stare at her. She's fuzzy, but she looks beautiful haloed in the early morning light filtered through the trees. You smile weakly at her.

You're glad that she's the last thing you see.

Your eyes close.

* * *

A hard blow to your face wakes you up a little, and you snap your eyes open, though it takes supreme effort.

"Wake up," Santana orders, louder, closer. "Stay awake."

More adrenaline floods your system and aids you, and with Santana's help, you sit up again. She lifts your shirt and begins smearing something cool and stinging onto your back, over the arrow hole. You grunt from the pressure of her fingers, but you can immediately feel your weakness ebbing away and your strength returning to you.

"Here," she tells you, lifting a canteen to your mouth. You drink in huge gulps, suddenly feeling voraciously thirsty as the water hits the back of your parched, dry throat. She holds her palm out to you, and in it are three large, white capsules. "Take these."

You swallow them without hesitation, and Santana touches your sweaty forehead, strokes down your cheek, cups your face.

"You already look better," she says, as if she might cry. Her eyes are brimming with tears and she chews her lip. You smile wanly at her and she wraps her arms around you and hugs you tightly, and you close your eyes and hug her back, unsure how to express how floored you are that Santana just-

She pulls back and orders you to drink again, and you obey. She rests her hand on your knee, and you feel her touch burning you through your pants in a good way, the comforting pressure soothing you. Once you drain the canteen, you hand it back to her and study her face. You reach to cover her hand with yours, and she looks up, meeting your steady gaze. Your ribs still ache, but it's muted. You don't feel as constricted.

"Thank you," you tell her. She doesn't answer, only drops her gaze and flips her hand over, lacing your fingers together and rubbing your hand with her thumb. You don't know what that means, but your mind is not clear enough to think about it now.

You rest for a few more minutes and take in your surroundings, breathing in the fresh air. You feel at least eighty percent better, and you're amazed that a few pills and some stinging ointment could restore you so quickly. When you voice your thoughts to Santana, however, she shakes her head and gestures to a discarded hypodermic needle she'd used to administer the antidote to you when you were unconscious. You feel silly, but Santana only smiles gently at you, and you take a moment to survey your surroundings. You don't recognize the area, but you can hear running water nearby. It's a surprisingly peaceful spot, and you wouldn't mind camping here for the night. You climb to your feet. You're not back at full strength, but with the effects of the poison counteracted, you're recovering more every minute as your body functions return to normal.

"Let's get you cleaned up," Santana says softly, and you let her lead you down to the stream.

* * *

Santana's all business as she carefully strips you and helps you wash away the swamp sludge from your wounds. You inventory yourself and feel rather sheepish that you have so many and Santana only sustained a few bruises- not that you're complaining. You're glad she wasn't injured worse.

Once you're clean and patched up with fresh bandages from one of the backpacks from the Feast, Santana settles you comfortably on a blanket- also from the Feast- and feeds you bread and cheese and- just how much stuff did she get from the Feast?

"The food was in Finn's bag," Santana says with a shrug, biting into a sandwich hungrily. "The first aid stuff was yours."

"And your bag?" you wonder.

She shrugs. "Stuff for keeping warm. I have a feeling the arena is going to be changing, soon."

Your stomach sinks, but doesn't ward away your appetite. You're starving, and you gladly eat everything Santana offers you, though she makes you eat slowly so you don't make yourself sick.

Once you're finished eating, she stands up. "I have to go get our supplies where we left them," she tells you, and you nod, climbing to your feet, but she stops you with a gentle hand to your shoulder. "No, Britt- you stay here and rest."

You do not like that idea at all. You don't want to be separated from her. What if something happens? What if she runs into Jesse, or mutts, or-

"Don't worry," she says softly, trying to ease you, but it doesn't work. "There's only three of them left. Quinn isn't coming after us in her state. Jesse's been missing this whole time. He might _actually_ be unconscious somewhere, who knows? And Marley would've taken us out at the Cornucopia, if that was her intention." You puzzle at her words- Marley was there? But before you can question her, she continues, "I'll be fast. I can take care of myself- and you," she teases. You relax perhaps one millimeter at her joke. "I promise I will come back."

You shake your head. You hadn't even thought of her abandoning you, not after everything she did for you at the Cornucopia. But maybe she _should_ abandon you. You're strong enough to handle yourself on your own, now, and it would save her having to kill you… probably.

She bends to kiss you briefly, repeating that she will be back before she slinks away, and you watch her go, feeling breathless, feeling your chest ache, and neither of those feelings have anything to do with your wounds.

* * *

Santana returns as promised before the ceremony at the end of the day. She sets the two bags and her sickle down beside the other three bags, and immediately begins sorting through them, repacking the necessary items into the two larger bags. There's a good amount of dried food, first aid supplies- hopefully you won't need anymore- a better, thicker sleeping bag, a blanket, and then Santana surprises you.

"I grabbed this on the way out," she says, handing you a short sword, encased in a black leather sheath, complete with a shoulder strap.

Your eyes widen, but you smile. You're definitely feeling a lot more confident about your odds, and that both pleases you and scares you. When the Capitol Anthem plays and Finn's face lights the sky, Santana leans against you, hugging your arm. She grabs your hand tightly and nuzzles her face into your neck, and you wonder if you should say something, but you don't want to break the fragile moment. You wonder if maybe she's worried about the end. You wonder if maybe she's memorizing the way you smell, the way you feel, before she has to-

Your throat feels tight again, but you will yourself not to cry. You just sit next to Santana and let her hold onto you, and try to ignore the wet spot on your neck from her tears.

* * *

The sound of thunder wakes you, and you're immediately scrambling in the dark to pack up your supplies. You can't chance the rain being acid again, so you quickly gather your things, sling your sword over one shoulder and your pack over the other, and let Santana lead you to a nearby cave she'd found on her trek back up the mountain earlier. You'd liked being outside, enjoying the openness and the fresh air, but you definitely don't want to deal with possible acid rain, so you'll just have to deal with the cave.

You enter behind Santana, wondering how many there are, if they're all connected. This one is deeper than the last one you'd stayed in, and has a connecting tunnel. You feel uneasy about the blackness; the same uneasiness you felt before you killed Tina. _Anything_ could be lurking in there. You don't want to stay here. You'd rather make your way back across the mountain to the cave you'd stayed in before.

"San," you start, and at the edgy, worried tone in your voice, Santana immediately stops unpacking to give you her full attention.

"What is it?"

"I don't…" You hesitate, unsure how to form your uneasiness into words. "I don't want to stay here."

Santana nods. "Okay." She doesn't question you further. Instead, she immediately begins repacking her bag. She's just zipping it closed when you hear footsteps in the tunnel, and you turn, the hair on the back of your neck standing on end. You instinctively draw your sword.

You feel the presence of someone, and your stomach tenses in anticipation and fear. Is it a muttation? Something else? You tighten your grip on your short sword and wait, listening as the footsteps come closer, faster. Santana moves to stand silently beside you, and you feel slightly reassured. It's only one set of footsteps in the tunnel; you outnumber whatever it-

"It's Jesse!" Santana hisses, and as the figure gets closer, you realize _she's right_.

You're stunned; Jesse's been _in the tunnels_ this whole time? Doing _what_? Was he lost? You shake your head at the irony, and quickly weigh your options. You shouldn't engage him here, in the cave. It doesn't give you a lot of room- but then, you prefer to fight in close quarters anyway, so that's not an issue for you. It's dark, but your eyes have already adjusted. You're still not back to your full strength, and your interrupted sleep has left you mostly exhausted, but you're going to have to take Jesse on eventually, right? Might as well do it here.

As Jesse comes closer, you can see he's looking severely rundown, which makes you more confident and also sends off a warning signal in your brain. His clothes are ripped and dirty and he's bleeding in several places. His entire right arm is completely covered in blood, as well as the sword he's holding in his hand. You wonder what could have mangled him so badly- something in the tunnels?- but you force yourself to focus. This is clearly good news- a weaker Jesse is definitely an advantage for you.

"Brittany," Jesse sneers. "I thought I heard you, though I'm surprised you've teamed up with this filthy bitch." He nods at Santana and you grit your teeth. You're going to really enjoy plunging your sword through his chest.

"Jesse," you acknowledge. "I see you've been playing in the tunnels while the real warriors are out winning the Games. Did you get lost? Maybe you should've focused on _how to tell directions_ in Training."

"Here's a hint," Santana mocks. "The light is the exit."

You smirk as Jesse curses you, then snarls, "You have no idea what I've dealt with in here."

"Nope," you agree. "I only know you haven't made a _single kill_. You've got to be pretty low on the scoreboard- even _Finn_ made more kills than you." You smile at the rage in Jesse's eyes. You knew Finn would be a sore spot. You recall several times during his bragging sessions at dinners that he thought he was a superior fighter.

"I'll still get two kills," Jesse growls.

"If you mean _yourself_ only, I'm afraid you can't count," you say with a shrug.

"Hope they got a cannon ready," Santana sneers, readying her sickle. It makes you smirk wider and you feel your muscles tensing in preparation for the inevitable fight.

You're not worried. Once you take Jesse out, the rest will be easy. Santana's win seems more and more certain, and for you, that's a pretty happy ending.

With a roar, Jesse lunges for you. You bring your sword up to meet his, and the two metals hit with a loud, vibrating clang. His swing isn't as strong as you were expecting, which confirms that he's a lot weaker from his days spent in the cave. You wonder if he even procured any food or water. You wonder what he's even been _doing,_ but you don't _really_ want to know. The fact that your earlier musing- that the cave system is complicated and riddled throughout the entire mountain- was right makes you a little nervous. You don't want to get lost like he did. You need to make sure you know which way is out.

Jesse stabs at you, and you dodge. You swing your sword in to cut Jesse's throat; he blocks it and punches you in the side of the thigh, and you pounce back, your thigh muscle aching at the blow, your leg feeling weak. Your nerves tingle, and you're thankful again that Jesse is not at full strength, otherwise that hit might've dropped you.

Santana's sickle gleams and you catch her as she stabs Jesse in the ribs. He cries out in pain, bringing his sword around, but before he can turn it on Santana, you're on him. You're tripping him to the ground, and he hits hard. You're just about to stab your sword into his chest when you hear- _something_- and the ground begins to shake beneath your feet.

"Oh, fuck- now what?" Santana snaps, and you're struck with terror as you catch sight of the stones raining down from the ceiling of the tunnel, right where Santana's standing. You lunge forward and snatch her back. You can't think about the fact that those rocks are now blocking the exit. You can't think about being trapped. You can only think about the fact that the cave-in hasn't stopped, and is progressing steadily forward, driving you deeper into the labyrinth of tunnels.

Jesse scrambles to his feet and dashes in the direction from which he originally came, and you have no choice but to sheath your sword and follow him, since your way out is now blocked with rocks.

_Shit._

You grab Santana's hand- so you don't get separated- and pull her along as you dash down the tunnel after Jesse. You don't trust his sense of direction- after all, he's spent the entire Hunger Games trapped in the tunnels- but you don't really have a choice. Rocks and chunks of stone continue to hail from the ceiling as you move; some of them strike you and bounce off, leaving large bruises or jagged cuts. But you can't be bothered to assess your damage, yet, not while there's a good chance you could still be buried alive.

You flee down the tunnel, which curves drastically to the right, and narrows considerably, and for a moment, you're terrified it's going to turn into a dead end, but it doesn't. It's a fork, and Jesse runs to the right. No sooner does he take two steps when the entire ceiling seems to just- _collapse_. The cannon is instantaneous.

It begins to sink in that you could really die here.

You tug Santana to the left and narrowly avoid being crushed by more falling rocks. Where the hell are they even coming from? The Gamemakers _had_ to have triggered the cave in, but _why_? Was your fight with Jesse not entertaining enough? Are they legitimately trying to kill you and Santana so you don't win? You wouldn't be surprised, but-

The tunnel wall to the right of you shudders and crumples, turning into a rockslide and leaving just a dark, narrow opening at the very top just beneath the ceiling. You have no idea where it leads, but it's the only way out of the tunnel you're currently in, which hasn't stopped raining down stones, and you have a feeling that it won't stop anytime soon. You need to get out of here. You climb up the unsteady rock hill, and are met with the slim opening at the top- you'll have to squeeze through. You immediately push Santana through first before wriggling through yourself.

On the other side is a gentle sloping rock hill that seems like it goes down forever. You half-climb, half-slide down the hill, concerned about _where the fuck you are_. It's almost completely dark- you wonder if there are any light shafts here; there's no way to tell since it's currently nighttime. Your feet touch solid ground and you step off of the rockslide to explore the area. It's too dark to really see anything, but-

Santana digs in her bag and pulls out a match, which she lights, and you see the small area you're in for the first time, and your stomach sinks as you see that you're surrounded on all sides by collapsed rock.

You're completely trapped.

You make sure, of course. You run your hand over every stone, tugging until your hands are calloused and sore and bleeding. Then you do it again. Then again. Santana does the same, lighting the way with match after match and frantically testing the walls with you. You find nothing- nothing except smashed bits of metal that you think must have been a camera at some point, which only makes you feel more trapped and isolated. The Gamemakers can't even _see_ you. Is this some kind of glitch? You can't even scream for help, because who would hear you? And even if they did- who would _save_ you?

You never imagined the Games would turn out this way.

Once you and Santana have exhausted yourselves, you both sit down, near each other, in the total darkness. Your eyes adjust- barely- and you find her hand. She squeezes yours tightly, and you feel your heart in your throat as you struggle to find something to say, but your thoughts won't make sense in your brain, at least, not anything you can say with a steady voice. You settle for squeezing her hand back reassuringly and assess your situation.

You're completely trapped in a dark cave with Santana. There's no exit. You can survive another few days on the food and water you have, but why would you want to? You briefly wonder if it would have been better to just get crushed in the tunnel, but you shake your head. You're grateful for every moment you have with Santana, even-

Her head rests against your shoulder, she hugs your arm, and you let the finality of your situation sink in. It was foolish to imagine a happy ending- foolish to think either of you could be the Victor.

_This_ is how you're _both_ going to die.

* * *

**OMFG**

**I know you're all probably mad at me for this hopeless situation, but hang in there for the final exciting chapter, and to find out who wins the 25****th**** Hunger Games! (There will only be **_**one**_** winner :()**

**Review if you feel like it! I enjoy your ~predictions. Who do you want to win? Brittany? Santana? Quinn? Marley? **

**One chapter left and it's going to be crazy! See you guys soon! **


	13. Destiny

**A/N:** Hi there! Thanks to everyone who read and reviewed. I won't talk long because I know you're all probably not even reading this, but I appreciate the feedback.

Special thanks, as always, to Lighthouse (**NegativeSpaces**), Dakota (**Perfectly Censored**)- speaking of which, **Strange Fruit** updated! Read that shit!- and my good friend, Tiger (**get-higher**) for all of their help. This story would be an even bigger pile of shit than it already is without them. :')

Okay, I'm done! Enjoy! And remember- **death and graphic violence**! Careful!

* * *

You wish you could sleep.

Your mind won't shut off; your brain won't stop trying to come up with a solution to your hopeless situation. You keep wondering if you checked _every_ crack, if you pulled on _every_ rock, if you pulled _hard enough_- even though you know you did. Your mind frantically tries to make you second guess yourself, to convince yourself that you _didn't_, that you need to try again, but your hands feel raw, and you're exhausted. You wish you could sleep.

You sit, leaning carefully against the wall with Santana at your side. You'd laid out the sleeping bag and the blanket in preparation to sleep, but neither of you have been very successful in actually doing so. Instead, you sit leaning against each other on the blanket, silent. Her hand holds yours tightly, as if your touch is keeping her grounded, so you try to soothe her by stroking your thumb along the back of her hand. You have no words, nothing to comfort her with- except your touch. Except your outwardly calm appearance. You have to be strong- for _both_ of you.

You bring her hand to your lips and kiss her knuckles softly, trying not to think about how your heart is shattering. You're keeping yourself together only because you haven't accepted the inevitable yet. You know if you think about it too much you'll lose your shit, become a sobbing mess, and that's not productive for either of you. You don't mind dying- you've known your life would end here, in these Games, for days now.

But you cannot accept that Santana's life will end. Not here.

It's too much to hope for that Quinn will succumb to her injuries, and mutts will take out Marley. If the two others left in the Games suddenly died, then it would be you and Santana. And you still have your sword. You could end your life. The Capitol could dig Santana out; they know where you are. You still have your trackers in your arms, after all, and as long as you're moving around, the Capitol knows you're alive, even without cameras. But you know they won't interfere unless it comes down to one of you possibly being the Victor-

You know it's stupid to hope for it to play out that way, but you try to hold onto it anyway. You've always been optimistic despite everything; it would go against your very self to lose that now, faced with the end. You've never felt more powerless. Santana's fate rests solely on whether or not Quinn and Marley both die.

Before you can stop your thoughts, you think of the alternative; if you and Santana don't make it, Marley will take out Quinn- and win. You laugh to yourself a little and shake your head at the thought of little Marley actually _winning_ the Hunger Games. You had no idea she would be such an expert in hiding herself, but then, she tried to teach you at the camouflage station in Training, didn't she?

"What's funny?" Santana asks softly, lifting her head from your shoulder to look at you, even though it's completely dark.

"Just-" you hesitate. "Thinking about the irony of Marley winning the Games." You shrug.

Santana laughs softly, but it's an empty sound that makes your chest hurt. "I'm glad it's her and not Quinn."

You nod into the blackness. You're glad, too. Marley showed you nothing but kindness- but you also wonder what kind of life she will have, having to mentor future District 6 tributes every year and watch them be killed, having to relive everyone's death. To your knowledge, Marley didn't actually have to kill anyone, so- wait-

"How did Finn die?" you ask, since you didn't talk about it earlier.

"Marley's dart," Santana answers softly. "It dropped him, but I- well, I made sure he was actually dead." She pauses. "I think the kill will be credited to her, though."

You nod thoughtfully. Of course Marley would use a clean, humane method of killing. Not like how you brutally killed- how many? How many other tributes died by your hands?

You don't want to think about it. If you had won the Games, you'd have to relive every single one, and maybe if it had been before you met Santana- before you started seeing the other tributes as real people- you could've celebrated. You could've felt proud each time that cannon boomed. But now, you don't feel anything, anything but numb. You just want to forget. You settle back against the wall, your thoughts racing faster than before, though they are the same.

You miss Santana's brown eyes.

* * *

You're exhausted, but you can't sleep. It's too _dark_ to sleep, and that doesn't even make sense in your mind. You have no idea what time it is, but you guess based on how much time has passed since the thunder woke you initially that it must be just past midnight. Your thoughts have moved on from escape to survival- how long can you make your supplies last? How many days do you have left? Surely Santana can out-survive Marley and Quinn, can't she?

"What're you thinking about?" Santana wonders, her voice barely above a whisper in the still quiet of the darkness.

You swallow. You don't want to tell her what you're thinking about. You know she won't approve. You know she doesn't want to win the Games, but how can you accept her dying? If she dies, won't everything you've been through become meaningless? You don't want it to be for nothing; keeping Santana alive was the only thing that kept you fighting, and if she _dies_-

Santana senses your hesitation and sighs, and you force your thoughts elsewhere. You're not dead yet. In fact, there's still so much you don't know about Santana. So much you don't know that you want to know before- well, before the end. You can't sleep anyway, and you have a good hunch that Santana's in the same position you are.

So, surprising her, you shift, pulling her into your lap. If you have to die like this, you want to die knowing everything there is to know about Santana. You want to know who she is and you want her to know who you are. You lean forward and find her lips in the darkness, kiss her senseless, and when you pull back, breathless, and rest your forehead against hers, you murmur, "Tell me about your life."

Santana cups your face, her thumbs stroking slowly- fondly- over your cheeks. "Ask me," she breathes.

So you do, between more stolen kisses. And you begin to get more of a complete picture of who the girl from District 9 truly is.

Santana is a hard worker. She's brutally honest, which sometimes agitates people. She's sensitive and kind and compassionate, evidenced by your own experience and the story she tells you about the time she got whipped for stealing bread- but not for herself. "For some other younger kids at the mill," she confesses as your thumb rubs soothing circles on her hipbones, your arms wrapped loosely around her waist. "I got lashed until I passed out. The scars are gone, thanks to my Prep Team and the buffing they did on my skin. It's weird to think that the only reminder I have of that is my memory, when for so long…" you feel her shake her head against you, and you steal another kiss.

"You're brave," you whisper breathlessly.

"You're the only one who thinks so." It sounds like _you're the only one who matters._

She asks you questions, too, so you tell her about growing up in District 2. You tell her about your father, the retired Peacekeeper, and your mother, the mason. You tell her about your sister, and Santana confirms she's an only child.

You tell her about the time your father took you to the Peacekeeper Academy to go shooting when you were thirteen. You'd picked it up immediately, like you'd been doing it for years, and that's what made him consider you as a future tribute in the Hunger Games. The following year he'd secured you a spot in the Hunger Games Training Academy, and you bitterly relive how happy you were to do something so honored and meaningful.

In return, Santana tells you about Harvest, and working from before dawn until after twilight out in the fields. It's how she got so adept at wielding a sickle. Her primary job during the year was at the mill, but during Harvest, everyone works in the fields. You can't imagine having to work at such a young age. All you had to do was go to school, at least, until you joined the Academy. Despite her reduced school time, you know Santana is extremely smart, and you can't explain the feeling of pride and admiration that comes over you as you listen to her talk.

You wish you were as impressive, but Santana enjoys your stories, since she grew up without a family, so you share with her the time your father took you to a Capitol Day festival when you were sixteen; you explain how the Capitol is viewed differently in District 2- as a caregiver, as a generous deity, and not as an enemy. You listen as Santana tells you the exact opposite, and as she points out how different the Capitol treats District 9- with strict punishments, severe whippings, maimings, and even execution over the smallest of offenses, you can't help breaking down in tears.

Has it been like that all along? Does every District- except for 1, 2 and maybe 4- receive the type of brutal oppression and cruelty from a ruler who you've believed your whole life to be fair and supreme? You only have to look around at your surroundings to know the truth, and you feel ashamed.

You never had to endure the things Santana has, and yet you can't help feeling miserable and ashamed for being part of the system, for having a pro-Capitol mindset. You know you've changed- grown- since the Games started, and you can't help the way you were raised, but it still hurts to know that you supported the tyranny that caused Santana so much suffering. Santana- brave, compassionate Santana, who's always so careful with you- holds you and strokes your hair and tells you it's okay. She hushes you gently while you apologize, and you're amazed that Santana doesn't hate you; that she doesn't blame you for your ignorance. You don't feel like you deserve a friend, an ally (an _everything_) as wonderful as Santana, but you're so thankful that your name was called in the Reaping. You don't regret a single moment. You've finally found what you'd been inadvertently searching for your whole life; you'd finally found meaning, and purpose, and a sense of wholeness, and even as short-lived as it must be, you don't regret it.

"Santana," you whisper hoarsely, and then suddenly she's kissing you, fierce and hard and Santana's fingers are buried in your hair. She tugs insistently, commanding you to tilt your head, to move closer, to kiss her harder, and you obey, sighing into her mouth. When you break apart for air, Santana hugs you closer, and you rest your chin on her shoulder. Her fingers stroke through your hair, pulling the elastic band free, and your hair falls loosely over your shoulders as you nuzzle your face into her warm neck, inhaling her scent. You tighten your arms around her, pulling her closer, and press your lips to her neck; she shivers, her fingers tightening in your hair, and the response sends a jolt of heat to your gut.

You find Santana's mouth again, and your lips meet, slipping clumsily in the darkness. Her tongue darts out, just barely to tease along your lips, and you feel her smile against you. You growl playfully and tug her closer, and she laughs, low in her throat, and kisses you deeply. You take your time exploring her mouth- it's not like the kisses you've shared with her in the past, desperate and rushed. You have time to trace your tongue over her teeth, to bite on her bottom lip just to hear her gasp, to suck on her tongue, and she does the same to you.

Your heart is starting to pound; Santana's mouth and proximity are having an obvious effect on you. You cup her ass and squeeze, tugging her hips roughly into you, and she groans in your mouth as her center grinds against your tense lower stomach. You can feel the heat from between her legs through her clothes, and it makes your own center ache in response.

When Santana breaks the kiss to trail a path of hot, open-mouthed kisses across your jaw and down your neck, your breath hitches. She tugs your hair firmly with one, forcing your head to the side as her tongue slips out, teasing the sensitive skin. Her other hand slides down, her warm fingers slipping under your shirt to slide over the heated skin of your stomach, and your whole body shudders, your back arching slightly at the touch. Your lack of sight makes your other senses more sharp, more intense. Santana's familiar smell invades your nose, intoxicating you. Her touch is warm, electric. Her breathing echoes in your ears. You can practically hear both of your hearts pounding in sync.

You suck in a ragged breath; Santana sucks on your neck briefly. You feel her teeth sink into the sensitive spot on your neck, and you whimper. She always knows exactly how to get your blood racing, and as her hand creeps higher, pushing your shirt up, you lean forward to allow space for her to remove it.

Her mouth moves down across your bare shoulder, her hands reaching for your pants. You swallow, your heart racing as Santana's moist lips move lower, over your collarbone, her tongue sliding along it. The tension in your stomach curls tighter, and Santana shifts, tugging your pants down off your hips. Your heart pounds even harder as you settle back down onto the blanket. You know no one can see you- you can't see anything, either. For the first time, you finally feel like you have privacy with Santana, and you're in no hurry. It's bittersweet, but you don't let thoughts of the immediate future taint your moment with her. You blindly cup her her face in the darkness, and let your mouth find hers again. You use your other hand to slide her shirt up, and she pulls back to take it off before crashing her lips to yours again, clumsily.

You slide your fingers over her perfect, flawless skin, enjoying the way she leans into your caresses, enjoying the way her body shivers in pleasure. Every glancing touch, even the barest skim of your fingertips over her skin, sends electric currents pulsing through you. Every soft press of her lips to your body makes you shudder in response. Her wet, soft lips kiss down over your collarbones, over your breasts, down your stomach. Teeth drag over your hip, and you struggle to breathe as her mouth finds your inner thigh, and her tongue darts out to taste your skin, and then- and _then_-

You suck in a gasp- _fuck_- and your hand finds the back of her head, your fingers threading through her hair as her mouth descends on you. Your chest heaves, and you tremble; you've _never_ let anyone have this much power over you before, not like this. But just like you gave Santana control the night before the Games, you give it to her again now. You wish you could see her face, but instead you close your eyes and remember the dark look in her brown eyes. Santana wraps arms around your thighs and holds you securely, and you feel _safe_ again, a feeling you thought you'd lost, that you'd never feel again. You give up control to Santana completely and it liberates you as her mouth gently sucks on your clit, making you feel like you're going crazy with the light pressure of her lips on you. Her tongue dips low, lapping at your entrance, and you already feel yourself ready to explode from your heightened sense of touch.

It doesn't take much more, just a few strong licks over your sensitive clit, and your back is arching, your hips are lifting, pushing yourself into her mouth as she continues to suck gently at you. She tightens her arms around your thighs and her hands grip your hips. She holds you steady, cradling you as you come down, shaking.

Her mouth trails kisses back up your stomach, your chest, your heart, and then she's kissing you and you taste yourself. She settles in your lap again, her hips grinding down against your stomach, and she's slippery and so hot as she slides against you. Your center aches; you want all that hot wetness in your mouth. You want to make her feel good, too. You slide down, pausing to kiss her stomach. Your arrow wound aches dully, reminding you that it's not fully healed, but you ignore it. You have more important things to focus on.

In a few days, it won't matter, anyway.

When you're lying flat, you encourage Santana to lower herself into your waiting mouth, and she does, burying her fingers in your bangs, caressing you softly as you slide your tongue out to taste her for the first time. Her body shudders above you, and you groan at how wet she is, at the way she slips against you, covering your mouth and chin with her wetness. It doesn't take her long before her thighs are shaking on either side of your head. You lock your arms around her, pressing one hand to her lower stomach to feel the muscles tightening, and support her lower back with the other.

"Britt," she pants, and you know she's close. You keep up your steady rhythm, groaning when you feel her body tense, her hips rutting involuntarily as she comes in your mouth. You swallow and bring her down with slow, gentle licks, enjoying the way her hand continues to communicate her affection by stroking your face and playing with your hair.

She shifts off of you, and you sit up to kiss her, swallowing her moan. You push forward, carefully lowering her to the sleeping bag where you pin her down. Then you let your mouth explore her body; you suck at her collarbone, biting, marking her darkly as she writhes beneath you.

Her fingers dig into your shoulders, and you feel your heart beating, your feelings catching up with you, sinking back into you now that the waves of your orgasm have subsided. You feel too much, but you can't say any of your feelings out loud. You can't sort through them because there's just too many. You feel longing, regret, sadness, anger, desire, and all of it's battling inside you to surface at once.

You wish you had more time. You know now, more than ever, that you and Santana could've been something great, something everlasting. That you belong together.

Santana wraps arms around you, holds you close, and you tuck your face into her neck and try to calm your racing pulse, try to halt your building tears. You can't accept that this is it. There has to be a way out. You have a few days; surely, you'll be able to come up with a solution once you've rested. Your thoughts soothe you, and once Santana's breathing returns to normal, you both redress slowly, fumbling around in the dark and giggling a little when you _accidentally_ bump into each other and steal kisses. Then you curl up in the sleeping bag together, your head on Santana's chest, your limbs tangled and heavy.

And you finally shut your thoughts off enough to go to sleep.

* * *

You wake to the sound of distant rumbling, feeling well-rested. It only takes a second for you to remember your situation, though, and instantly the feeling of hopelessness settles back over you. You look into Santana's face, tracing your eyes over the outline of her face. You lean down to press a kiss to her cheek before it sinks in that if you can see Santana's face, there must be-

Light.

You bolt upright quickly and immediately find the source of the light- the barest sliver of a crack near the floor of the cave. You move to it and stare, wondering what it could possibly be. What could be causing light so deep in the mountain tunnels? It would have to pass _through_-

And then it hits you.

_The launch tube. _

Of course! At the beginning of the Games, you'd started below the mountain, below the arena, and ridden the cylinder through the glass tube- through the mountain- and up to the swamp. And if one of the glass tubes is nearby- if you can dig it out enough-

You nearly fall over as you realize- _you can escape_. Not just the cave. Not just the _Games_. You can escape, _completely_. If you can reach that glass tube, you can go back down it, down to the Launch Room. Your heart pounds, your chest feeling tight as your breathing begins to quicken, coming in shallow breaths.

"San," you whisper, feeling like you're falling. "_San_," you say again, frantic, urgent. "Santana, fuck, come-"

She touches your shoulder and you turn to look at her, your eyes wild. You can just barely make out her expression in the tiny glow from the crack, but she looks shaken. You watch the realization come over her face. "Britt," she rasps, trying to find her voice. Her mouth hangs open in disbelief and she shakes her head.

It's all the confirmation you need.

You scramble for your sword, and immediately pause as you remember you're being watched. The trackers are still in your arms. Surely the Capitol knows where the glass Launch tube is located; you can't both spend too much time nearby. There's no cameras, so they have no idea that you've found it, but if you both stand next to it, they'll know-

"San," you say. "I- I need your help."

She turns away from the sliver of light, moving towards you. You gingerly touch your forearm and swallow your fear. You hand her your sword, and she takes it hesitantly.

"I need you to dig this out," you tell her, tapping your forearm, and she meets your eyes. You just barely see the anguished expression on her face before she nods.

"All right."

You take a deep breath, and Santana guides you to sit, laying your arm flat against the floor. She digs into her bag, pulling out the extra medical supplies- they came in handy after all- and sterilizing both your arm and her sword. She strokes her thumb soothingly over your wrist after, and asks if you're ready; you nod, turning your face away- not that you can see much. You tell yourself it won't hurt that badly, that you've endured worse- because you _have_- but as soon as the tip of the sword stabs into your arm, you clench your teeth and release a hissing breath.

"I'm sorry," she whispers, but it's over quickly. You're thankful the tracker was close to the surface. If it was any deeper-

She cleans the wound- which hurts worse than the actual procedure- and puts pressure on it to stop the bleeding, bandages your arm. It takes less time than you thought. Once you're patched up, Santana demands you eat something so you don't pass out, and you oblige her, though you're eager to start chipping away at the rocks.

You snatch up your sword and move to the crack. You try and dig the tip of it into the rocks, to pry them out, but that fails. You quickly grow frustrated, and, as a last ditch effort, you stand and swing at the rocks with all your strength. They wiggle a few centimeters. You run a hand through your hair and decide this is going to take some time. Santana paces back and forth; "So they think we're still looking," she tells you, and your heart swells with pride at her foresight. You quickly set to work.

It's not like you have anything else to do.

* * *

It takes several hours, but you eventually chip away a hole in the rocks you're certain you can squeeze through. Smooth glass blocks you from entering the tube. Your sword is completely dull, but you don't care. The light from the swamp, travelling down the glass tube, brightens the cave, and you worked until it started to fade with the setting of the sun.

Santana lays out all the food and water you have. You're not sure if it's wise to eat all your provisions now, but you've already decided- either you will make it to the woods, to the wilds surrounding the Districts, in which case you can get more…

Or you won't.

You don't like to think about the consequences of not making it.

You _will_ escape, get to the woods, and then it won't matter. You and Santana are both capable hunters. You can find water. You can build a _hammock_. Your thoughts fly, overwhelming you. You can do _whatever you want_. You'll be _free_.

You bite into the last of the bread, chewing quickly. Your free hand rests on Santana's, and you give it a reassuring squeeze. You'd decided to make your escape tonight, before the Games end. You don't have any idea what's going on in the arena; you haven't heard any cannons, but you're not even sure you _would_, buried in the mountain as you are.

None of it even matters.

Your chances are better if you go at night.

You eat and drink and hold Santana's hand, waiting, your stomach tensing, tying itself into knots the closer you get. You know it's dark outside. It's getting close. You need to make your move soon.

You also need to remove Santana's tracker.

She lights a match and Your hand shakes as you pour the antiseptic on her arm, and she reaches up with her free hand to touch yours. You take a deep breath. You've never done this before. You've never performed aid on anyone but yourself. You admire Santana so much for taking care of you. You don't want to hurt her, you don't want-

"It's okay, Britt," Santana whispers. She kisses your fingers. "I trust you."

You swallow. Santana trusts you. She's _always_ trusted you. You squeeze her hand briefly before you focus on her arm, and silently pray that you won't fuck anything up.

When it's done, Santana helps you bandage her arm, and then you both silently pack your bags. You stand, running through your plan of attack in your mind. You'll go down first, then Santana. Run for the outside, don't stop.

Santana touches your shoulder, and you turn to her. She leans up on her tiptoes and kisses you, and you kiss her back. You can do this. This isn't the last time you'll kiss her. At least- you hope it's not. You hug her close, crushing her to you, and when you release her, you draw your sword.

The first swing cracks the glass; the second swing shatters pieces of it, sending small shards flying. One of them slices your cheek, but you don't care- you achieved what you wanted. You carefully break away the larger jagged pieces and sheath your sword; then, you take your blanket, fold it, and lay it over the edges to keep from cutting yourself as you crawl through the hole.

You peer down into the dark tube. You can't spot the bottom, and you don't dare risk dropping anything. You have no idea what's waiting for you down there. The alarms might have already been triggered- you have no way of knowing. You have to move quickly.

You slip into the tube, carefully keeping your feet pressed to the opposite side to push your weight up against the glass and stop you from falling. You're thankful the tube is narrow, making your way easier. You practically walk down, bracing your weight on your legs as you move. You try to keep your mind sharp and focused as you make your way down into the dark, cramped space. Santana does the same above you, and after what seems like an eternity, you spot a small glow- probably lights from the Launch Room. You're nearing the bottom!

You creep slower as you get closer to the bottom, straining to hear or see anything. When you reach the edge, and you can go no further without exposing yourself to whomever might be in the room, you pause. Your plan is to drop down, break the glass, and-

You carefully release the pressure holding you up and drop to the bottom, landing in a crouch and quickly surveying the room. You immediately notice two things- one, that the room is completely empty, and two- the glass tube is _open_.

You're more surprised when you find the room dark, with not a single Peacekeeper present, but you suppose you shouldn't be. After all there's never been a breach before, right? Why would the Capitol be expecting this? No one's ever escaped the Hunger Games that you _know_ of. They're unprepared and unsuspecting. You smirk as you realize that next year, everything will change.

But that doesn't matter to you _now_.

You have no idea which Launch Room this is, but it doesn't matter. They're all connected somehow.

And they all lead to the outside.

You step out of the tube and draw your sword, and the sound of Santana landing on the ground behind you reassures you. Time to make your escape.

When you open the door, there's a short hallway and another door, which leads into a bigger room, with several other doors. Your stomach drops. There's two Peacekeepers, but they don't look prepared to fight. Their helmets are off, and one of them has a cup of coffee in his hand. They both look more shocked to see you than you are to see them.

You move forward and take the closest one out quickly, but the second one darts to the right, rushing to touch a panel on the wall- an _alarm_-

Santana intercepts him, catching him in the ankle with her sickle. Blood sprays from his heel, and he collapses. Before he hits the ground, she's moving forward to slit his throat. Bright red blood spatters the white wall. Drops speckle Santana's left cheek. Her expression is hard as she turns to you, but you're already crouching to quickly pick up the Peacekeepers' weapons, handing one to Santana. You keep your sword out, and swiftly make your way through the door and down the long, dimly-lit hall, crouched over and sneaking. You hold the gun securely in your left hand and your sword in your right, and Santana throws the strap of the gun over her shoulder, keeping her sickle out- she's more comfortable with that, you suppose.

The hallway is long and surprisingly empty, but you can see an open area near the end of it. It must be where all the other Launch Rooms connect. You need to figure out which way leads outside.

When you reach the open area, there's three more Peacekeepers, looking a lot more professional. One of them shoots at you and you have to roll to avoid the blast. You bring your automatic weapon with your left hand and squeeze the trigger, shooting him in the face. The glass of his helmet shatters and he drops to the ground.

The second and third Peacekeepers rush to attack you. You take aim, but he reaches you, kicking your gun aside. It dangles off your shoulder when you drop it, and you bring your sword up as the Peacekeeper attempts to hit you with the butt of the gun. The third Peacekeeper punches you in the kidney, right on your arrow wound- he must have been watching the Games- and though it's mostly healed, you double over in agony, crying out as pain shoots through you so violently it makes your teeth hurt. You stagger, and the second Peacekeeper slams his gun into you, catching you in the side of the head. You go down hard.

You're coughing and climbing to your feet when you hear several fast shots, and then Santana's helping you up. The two Peacekeepers lie sprawled on the ground- _dead_, with several holes in their chest, and you can't waste time as you find stairs- a good sign that you've chosen the path that leads above ground, _outside_- and another long hall. You're running out of time. Someone's going to discover your trail of bodies any moment-

You burst through a door and find another long hall- just how many are there?- and at the end of the hall are more stairs, with one last lone Peacekeeper standing guard by them. You sneak up behind him to snap his neck, but he twists the second your hands are on him and rolls you off his shoulder, dropping you to the ground. You brace yourself for his counterattack, but he does something unexpected.

He pauses.

"Brittany?" he asks, and you immediately recognize his voice, even behind his helmet. He's one of your father's younger Peacekeeper friends- Ryder. He'd just joined the service two years ago, making him only a few years older than you. Your father talked about him constantly, and you think perhaps that he even hoped that once Ryder served his required twenty years as a Peacekeeper, you'd settle down with him; and for a second, you're reminded that _you would have_. Ryder, the young man standing over you, is what your future would have been, if you had done what you were supposed to and won the Games.

If you had never met Santana.

Ryder doesn't move. You hesitate for only a second before you plunge your sword into his stomach.

It's only when you're towering over him, with him writhing at your feet in pain, that you reach for his head, to put him out of his agony. You know stomach wounds are painful.

"I'm sorry," you whisper, ignoring the bitter taste in your mouth. Then you snap his neck. You straighten up and grab the tags- your father's tags- hanging around your neck and rip them off, then drop them on Ryder's chest.

You have a new future now. A new destiny. You reach for Santana's hand.

She takes it without hesitation.

You rush up the stairs two at a time, preparing yourself for more Peacekeepers, but there's _no one_. Instead, you're greeted with heavy metal doors, and once you unlatch them and slam one open, you're greeted with fresh air. _Outside_. You quickly step out into the night and survey your surroundings. There's a large open concrete area used as a hovercraft landing pad. It's completely deserted. In the distance, you can see the woods- the _wilds_. You can't believe there's no one here. That there's not even a _fence_. Is the Capitol so completely comfortable? So confident? So cocky? You suppose they have no reason not to be, but in twenty-five years, you're surprised that not one tribute had ever tried to go back down to the Launch Room. You almost cry in relief. You know next year, everything will change. The Capitol will know better; it'll have its guard up. The Launch Rooms will be mini fortresses until the Games are completely over.

Too late.

You take two steps-

And the loud wail of a siren rises into the air, echoing, bouncing off the metal doors you just came through. Someone must've discovered your escape-

You immediately bolt forward, sparing a brief look into the sky. It's empty. No hovercraft. No _nothing_. Of _course_. It will take them time to get reinforcements out here. But by then you and Santana will be long gone. You laugh in wild disbelief at all your completely dumb luck, wondering fleetingly about fate, about destiny. You're about ten paces from the dark tree line, but there's no one pursuing you, _nothing_ stopping you from-

You reach the edge of the trees, Santana right beside you, but you don't stop. You keep running, dodging trees and low branches. Leaves slap you in the face, sting your skin, but you don't care, you can't stop, _you can't stop._ Your chest aches, your legs burn, your arrow wound throbs, but the adrenaline keeps you moving at a steady pace. You're going to keep running until you collapse. You can't be captured. You can't be taken.

Santana keeps stride with you, and you flash her a winded smile as you go. When she finally begins to slow beside you, and your lungs are screaming at you for a break, you decide to stop for a moment to catch your breath and assess where you are.

You turn to Santana, breathless, and before you can say or do anything, she's wrapping her arms around your neck and crushing you to her in a tight hug, pressing her lips to yours. She half laughs against your mouth, her cheeks wet with tears, and you just hold her, shaking from exhaustion and adrenaline and- and-

You can't believe it. _You can't believe it_. You're in the woods, kissing Santana. No one is pursuing you. You'll be deep in the wilds by the time the Capitol mounts the kind of search party they'd need to track you. You can find a river and use it to lose their trackers, if they have any. You're suddenly elated, and with Santana in your arms, you feel like you're on top of the world, like you can conquer _anything_. You're so caught up in the feeling of euphoria that you lift Santana and spin her around, grinning.

When she pulls back from the kiss to catch her breath and stare into your eyes, your heart feels like it might actually explode. The sun is just starting to rise- east, which tells you the direction you're heading is north. It sends beams of light flickering through the trees, through the leaves, and they slowly reach Santana's face, lighting her up, lighting _you_ up. Your chest feels warm and tight and you reach up to wipe away the happy tears from her cheeks with your thumb. She leans up, on her toes, and kisses you again in thanks, gently, taking your hand, her brown eyes glowing with the rays of the sun.

And all at once, you just _know_.

You know you're gonna be okay.

* * *

**:')**

**And that's a wrap! :D**

**Aww, see? You knew I wouldn't kill them, right? Right?!**

**One thing most of you who've read my stories before should know: **_**my stories are always safe**_**. **

**Brittana will always be endgame, and I will _never_ kill either one of them. Maybe that's a cop-out, but if you want to read about them dying, there's plenty of other stories out there that can make you ugly sob for days. However, my stories are _not_ those stories. :)**

**Special thanks again to all my friends who helped me by listening to me bitch. I love all of you. :')**

**I'd also like to thank everyone for reading and reviewing! THANK YOU SO MUCH! It was a fun journey! If you have questions about why I chose to do certain things in this story, you can ask me on tumblr (**_**xandylytex**_**) or shoot me a PM! I answer all of my messages… eventually. ;) **

**There **_**will not**_** be an epilogue, or a sequel. I think I left it pretty open-ended for Brittana. You can imagine they eventually found the ruins of District 13; or maybe they just lived out in the woods, far away from the Districts and the Capitol's control. Both of them have already proven to be completely capable at survival, so it's not too far-fetched to believe they wouldn't make a little home for themselves out in the wilds. It's up to you, so imagine whatever happy ending you want for them. :) **

**As for who won the Games... again, you can decide. One of the issues I tried to touch on was whether winning the Games is actually "winning"- yes, you are alive, but what kind of life is it for a Victor? (My personal headcanon is that Marley wins, but, whatever, it's up to you!)**

**So what's next? Well, for those of you reading and following **_**Savage**_**! you will be happy to know that I will have an update sometime within the next week and a half! For those of you not reading it, I hope to see you there, anyway! **

**Review if you feel like it, but if not, that's okay! Catch you on the next Brittana adventure! **

**See you next time! :)**


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